


Under The Mistletoe

by asarcasticwitch



Series: How Does Forever Sound? [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Baking, Beta Peter Hale, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Language, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family Feels, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Gift Giving, Good Peter Hale, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Daddy Kink, Implied/Referenced Minor Character Death, M/M, Meet the Family, Mutual Pining, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Not Beta Read, Oblivious Peter Hale, Oblivious Stiles Stilinski, Older Man/Younger Man, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Peter Hale is a Sap, Peter Hale is a Softie, Sassy Peter Hale, Sharing a Bed, Steter Secret Santa 2020, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27672719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asarcasticwitch/pseuds/asarcasticwitch
Summary: Stiles hasn’t seen his mother’s side of the family in the flesh since she passed away nearly sixteen years ago.Not that he has anything against them, it’s just that they live in Poland, and between all the supernatural shit going down and the several grueling years spent at college, he hasn’t found much of a chance to make the trip.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: How Does Forever Sound? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2151645
Comments: 76
Kudos: 477





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [artenon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artenon/gifts).



> This is my Steter Secret Santa gift for qorktrees on Tumblr. 
> 
> You gave me a few prompts, and instead of just choosing one or two to follow like a normal human being, I tried to include as many as possible like the masochist I am. 
> 
> This is possibly the fluffiest thing I've ever written; it's also filled with overly unrealistic scenarios and resembles just about every cheesy Hallmark Christmas movie ever made.
> 
> I wouldn't expect magic with regards to the writing standard. I'm only doing this for a bit of fun, so there will be mistakes and probably more than a few inconsistencies or unanswered questions. But it's Christmas, so I get a free pass to ramble and write utter ridiculousness.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this; it was such a treat to write for you.
> 
> Also, huge thanks to [Bunnywest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest) for being my extra pair of eyes and giving me some pointers when I hit a brick wall; I really appreciate it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, who’s the lucky guy?” His father teases, face falling into a grimace when Stiles’ expression sags pitifully. “I don’t like that face.”
> 
> “Well, how’s this for a punchline?” Stiles answers with a humorless laugh. “Turns out there’s only one guy I can ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, the timeline does tend to jump a little here and there; this is purely due to the fact that I didn't want to make this monster even longer than it already is. It's literally only a day or two at points, but I just wanted to mention it in case that bothers anyone.
> 
> Have fun!

Stiles hasn’t seen his mother’s side of the family in the flesh since she passed away nearly sixteen years ago.

Not that he has anything against them, it’s just that they live in Poland, and between all the supernatural shit going down and the several grueling years spent at college, he hasn’t found much of a chance to make the trip.

He knows he should’ve made more of an effort, but with the frequent Skype calls back and forth, he’s never really worried about it too much. Technically, he’s still _seeing_ them. Yeah, it may be through a screen instead of in person, but even so, they’ve watched him grow from that chubby, awkwardly hyperactive eight-year-old into the more athletic—only slightly less hyperactive and awkward—twenty-four-year-old either way.

They’ve never complained, sure they express their longing to see him again face to face, but they’re very practical people; they know the struggles he and his dad have been through over the years, and they’ve never pushed for more. They realize thousand-dollar trips around the world aren’t exactly feasible for a small county Sheriff and a university student.

It’s always been on the cards for Stiles to one day visit his last remaining relatives, and since there’s no one on his father’s side, he feels even more compelled to get his finger out his ass and actually do it instead of stalling. Especially now that college is done, nothing should be holding him back.

But that’s just the thing; something _is_ holding him back and has been since graduation. One thing Stiles noticed as soon as he’d made the Skype call to his babcia to celebrate the end of his studies.

That one simple thing—or several, but they’re all under the same heading—is a variation of the same inane question he’s been bombarded with by each and every family member since that fateful phone call.

_‘Have you met anyone?’_

Stiles knew it was coming; he’s not that stupid; he’s been making video calls at the same hour on the same day of the month for years now, and not once has he mentioned a significant other. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

The inevitability of the situation, however, doesn’t make him any less inclined to want to gouge his eyes out every time the topic is brought up.

Sure, he’s had a few meaningless crushes, one-night stands and the like—as most university students do—but he’s yet to find Mr. Right.

Well, that’s not entirely true. It’s a downright lie if he’s completely honest with himself. He has found a man he’d love nothing more than to spend the rest of his life with, but it’s a lost cause. The man is so far out of his league, he’s not even playing the same sport; he’d never in a million years be even remotely attracted to a hopeless case like Stiles.

The dude in question has also singlehandedly risen his standards to such a colossal height, no one else in the world will ever even come close in comparison, so his severe lack of romantic engagement could be determined as self-inflicted at this point.

Not unlike everything else in his life, it’s a shit show and, quite frankly, something he wishes to forget. He wants to cut out anything even remotely connected to his love life—or lack thereof—and throw it into the void. Unfortunately, visiting his family and being reminded at every turn just how woefully single he is—and probably will be forever—doesn’t exactly make that easy, nor does it sound particularly appealing.

Okay, he’s acting dramatic, but he’s been pining after the same man since he was seventeen, and having to think on that more than necessary is just fucking depressing.

They mean no harm; he knows that. It’s just typical older relatives trying to look out for him. It may come across as meddling, and yeah, it probably is a bit of that too, but deep down, they just care about him and want to see him happy and living his best life.

 _Join the club_.

His dad is somewhat the same; he just isn’t as vocal about it as his grandmother, sticking to subtly prompting a discussion about any budding relationships every so often. Of course, that’s all the while pretending he doesn’t want to hear the gory details or be reminded that his son is sexually active, but Stiles can see it in his eyes every time they talk about it. That glimmer of hope that he’s found the love of his life and any day now will traipse off into the sunset to live happily ever after.

Stiles would like that too, but at present, that goal seems so far away from becoming a reality it’s practically unachievable, and he’d seriously rather think of anything else.

That’s why, at this very moment, he’s cursing himself internally for wistfully mentioning to his babcia through the tiny laptop screen how his father is going to be working this Christmas. The sole reason being is he now has to think up a lie to tell her when she asks-

“Oh, baby, why don’t you come here?” She claps gleefully, scootching closer to the screen as if that’ll somehow open up a portal she can pull him through. “You could spend Christmas with us, so you’re not on your own. I’d hate to think of you sitting all on your own at Christmas, Mischief.”

And Stiles, well, he’s a fucking idiot—not that there was any doubt—because he lets the first thing that comes into his head fall out his mouth without much thought for the consequences. “I won’t be alone, Babcia; I’m spending Christmas with my boyfriend.”

_Oh, what boyfriend would that be, Stiles?_

God, he’s so stupid, he wanted to avoid the whole relationship talk, and now he’s just added more kindling to the fire.

Why, oh why, sweet baby Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, was that the first thing to pop into his head? At what point did his brain think _that_ was the most rational escape route to take?

The way his babcia’s face lights up would rivel the Rockefeller Christmas tree, she even squeals a little for effect, and Stiles knows, at that very moment, he’s royally screwed. “Boyfriend? Oh, baby, I’m so happy for you.” She thrusts out her fist in a congratulatory gesture, which Stiles mimics listlessly. “Finally.”

“ _Finally,_ ” Stiles parrots. “Babcia, come on, I’m only twenty-four.”

“Yes, and I was married with three children at that age; you’re not getting any younger, cherub.” She tips her glasses further down her nose, assessing him intently through the screen. “I can already see the frown lines.”

“Yes, well, no need to worry about me; I won’t be forever alone as we all anticipated.”

Stiles thinks that’s the end of it, that he’s successfully maneuvered his way around the sticky situation. Sure, he’ll probably be messaged from all angles asking for juicy deets on his new man—especially his Uncle Adrian, he thrives on gossip—but at least he’s got out of making the trip.

“Bring him with you; I’d love to meet him.”

Stiles’ whole-body freezes, face dropping, all the color draining from him. “What?”

“The whole family would,” she continues muttering, completely unaware of Stiles’ inner strife. “It wouldn’t be a hardship; I’ve got plenty of room in this big ole house.”

 _No, no, no._ This was supposed to be his ticket out, not dig him a deeper hole.

Laughing awkwardly, he snaps out of his momentary malfunction. “It’s our first Christmas together.” He smiles tightly, trying his best to look convincing. “I’m not sure we’re at the meet-the-family stage, let alone the travel-across-the-world-together stage.”

“Nonsense,” his babcia deflects, waving her hand dismissively. “If he’s willing to bed you, he’s willing to share a Christmas with your family.”

“Jesus, Babcia.” Stiles groans; even after all these years, he’s still not used to her lack of filter.

“Shhh, I won’t take no for an answer,” she hushes him, her tone brooking no argument. “It’s been so long since we’ve seen you, Mischief; I want to hold you, see how you’ve grown, _properly_ and not just through this damned screen.”

And if that doesn’t just seal it for him.

He could still say no, or just close the laptop lid and ignore her calls until the holidays pass, but he knows fine rightly he’d never be that blatantly rude or disrespectful to anyone—except maybe Gerard Argent or Adrian Harris.

He’ll just have to come up with a plan, figure something out. Maybe cancel last minute, tell them he missed his flight. Or perhaps this _boyfriend_ of his could contract a contagious disease while saving kittens in his equally imagery job, and Stiles—being the saint that he is—could never in his wildest dreams risk passing something onto his dearest grandmother.

That’s not going to happen either. Lying got him into this mess; it sure as hell isn’t going to get him out of it.

Well, it is, but now he just needs to find someone willing to lie along with him. 

“Okay,” Stiles finally agrees, yielding to the inescapable. He never did develop the ability to say no to a bright, glistening pair of puppy dog eyes. “We’ll come for Christmas.”

He’s so fucked.

~

Stiles ends the call after a few more minutes—hours maybe—of his babcia trying to get information out of him about his _mystery_ boyfriend.

He told her just to wait and see, that patience is a virtue and all that bogus, but in truth, how does one even begin to describe someone imaginary? He could probably give it his best shot, but what would be the point in painting a picture of some random guy when she’ll know—unless he somehow manages to find an exact replica—that he made it up as soon as she meets the man.

That leads him to the next item on the agenda, who exactly is he going to ask to be his partner in crime?

He can’t ask Scottie, while his bro wouldn’t have to think twice about doing him a favor, he’s spending Christmas at the Argents this year.

_Ain’t that a drastic turn of events?_

Much to everyone’s surprise, Chris and Melissa have become quite close since Allison’s death and, of course, helping save Beacon Hills from the supernatural world.

Chris has mellowed a lot, proved more than a handful of times whose side he’s on, and is just looking to settle into the next chapter of his life.

Neither of them has outright mentioned the development, but Scott has subconsciously adopted the man into his pack, and Chris—equally as subconsciously—has accepted. They probably wouldn’t go as far as calling each other bosom pals anytime soon, but with the way Chris dotes on Mel and how much brighter and happier she seems, Scott is more than willing to make an effort, even just for his mom’s sake.

Stiles reckons Scott would probably welcome the excuse to get out of there, but he also knows his bro would never dream of disappointing his mother, so he isn’t going to put that on his shoulders.

He would ask Isaac; the boy isn’t exactly his type, but desperate times call for desperate measures, as they say. However, he thinks there may be something going on between him and Cora, and he does _not_ want to get in the middle of that—even if it’s just playing pretend. He’s terrified of the she-wolf, not that he’d admit that out loud, but he’d really rather not get involved.

Derek is a favorable option, of course, but while their relationship has come on in leaps and bounds since the first time they met—Stiles would even go as far as to say they’re good friends now—he doesn’t think the wolf would agree to something like this. Or he _would_ because he’s self-sacrificing and still believes it’s his job to take care of everybody’s needs above his own like he did when he was the Alpha, but Stiles just doesn’t have the heart to do that to the man. He’d agree due to a sense of obligation, but spending a Christmas around several older variations of _Stiles_ would most likely be up there on the big guy’s list of his worst nightmares. 

So, that just leaves-

“Aw, fuck,” he groans, fingers tangling in his hair as he wonders how this became his life.

The irony is blinding.

“Hey, kiddo,” his dad announces as he walks into the living room, stopping behind the sofa where Stiles is sitting dejectedly with his head in his hands. “What’s up?”

Stiles forces his gaze up, twisting to fully appreciate his father’s concerned face. “I’ve fucked up.”

“Language.”

He slumps into the cushions, head lolling backward, half-hanging off the sofa, staring at his dad upside down. “Babcia invited me over to Poland for Christmas since you’re going to be on duty, said she didn’t want me to be on my own,” he begins flatly, arms gesturing sluggishly as he explains his dilemma. “Well, to get out of the monotonous questions of when I’m gonna settle down and have babies, I told her I was spending this Christmas with my new boyfriend.”

The look his father’s sporting is intense; eyebrows scrunched up in confusion. “But you don’t have a boyfriend?”

Stiles raises his arms in a _ta-da_ motion, voice lacking its usual sarcasm. “ _Exactly_.”

“Wow,” his dad says after a moment, giving him a pitying look. “You’ve really outdone yourself on this one, kid.”

_Helpful as ever._

A lightbulb flares in Stiles' head; with a random burst of energy, he twirls around on the sofa, kneeling to face the man, expression hopeful—or maybe pleading. “Can’t you call her and spin some story that you need me here instead?”

“Nope, this is all on you."

Stiles deflates, glaring at his dad for his betrayal, falling back onto the seat, splaying out his abnormally long limbs in a petulant protest.

“To be honest, I think it’s a great idea," the sheriff continues. "I hate the thought of you wallowing around here on your own for the holidays, especially since Scott’s busy.” His father snorts at his answering grumble, leaning forward to squeeze his shoulder in a tactile attempt to placate him. “It’ll be good for you to get a change of scenery, and hell, it’ll keep the woman off my case about visiting.”

Stiles’ scowl snaps towards him, raising his hand to point accusingly at the man. “She’s _your_ mother-in-law.”

“And I love her dearly, but I still remember how full-on she can be,” the sheriff admits, sending him what could be perceived as an apologetic smile. “Good luck, kid.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles offers dryly, folding his arms over his chest deliberately. “Thanks a bunch.”

“Is it really so bad? It’s been sixteen years. I would come with you if I could, and I mean that. I miss them too, but I’ve got a job to do; I can't just drop everything to travel spontaneously around the world.” His father threads his fingers through his no doubt unruly locks, tapping the back of his head until he looks up at him. The smile on his face is kind, and Stiles could never stay angry at that smile. “When I retire, I promise I’ll make the trip. You and me.”

Stiles’ annoyance dissipates as quickly as it came, all the tension leaving his body on a long exhale. “Fine.”

There are a few beats of silence before anyone speaks again.

“So, who’s the lucky guy?” His father teases, face falling into a grimace when Stiles’ expression sags pitifully. “I don’t like that face.”

“Well, how’s this for a punchline?” Stiles answers with a humorless laugh. “Turns out there’s only one guy I can ask.”

The man drags his hand across his face when the realization dawns on him. “Aw shit, son.” He curses a few more times under his breath, probably weighing up the pros and cons of calling in sick between now and Christmas day.

It takes him a minute, but he finally gives up his internal battle, straightening his posture, finger-pointing in Stiles’ direction, his expression sincere. “If that bastard hurts you, I’ll shoot him, you understand?”

“Christ, Dad,” Stiles whines, rolling his eyes. “We won’t _actually_ be dating; it’s all fake just to get the family off my back until I come home.”

“Yes, well, I know how long you’ve been pining over the guy, and I can’t say I approve, but hell, Stiles, just don’t do anything stupid,” he warns, turning to leave the room before stopping short, deciding to throw something else over his shoulder. “Even more stupid.”

Stiles huffs under his breath. “Too late for that.”

~

“Nope.”

Stiles flinches, stopping just before the open apartment door, staring up at the wolf leaning casually against the threshold, muscled arms crossed over his equally muscular torso.

His heart is beating wildly in his chest, breath coming out in short sharp pants, and it’s not entirely due to sprinting up three flights of stairs. “I haven’t even asked you anything.”

Peter raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow, eyes raking over him in an obviously judgmental fashion. “You have that look on your face, the one you get when you have an entirely irrational plan brewing in that overactive head of yours but aren’t quite sure the best way to bring it up.” His nostrils flare. “You also smell like anxiety, not your usual brand either.”

Stiles grits his teeth at his own transparency, bristling at how well the preceptive asshole can read him. “Hey, fuck you.” _Or fuck me_. “I’m not always after something, you know; have you ever thought I may just genuinely enjoy your comp-”

“What do you want, Stiles?” Peter interrupts, expression bored. “I was just about to sit and read the next chapter of-”

“Come to Poland with me as my fake boyfriend,” Stiles blurts, words leaving his lips in a rush, unsure if it presented as a question or a demand, but he doesn’t much care; he got the sentence out at least.

The wolf blinks at him, face impassive, not giving anything away as his gaze seems to penetrate his very soul.

Stiles is about to open his mouth to fill the silence, unable to hack the awkwardness when the man stands up straight, stepping aside to motion him into the apartment. “You best come in and start from the beginning.”

Stiles nods in thanks, slinking his way past Peter to enter the room, careful to avoid any unnecessary contact, lest he spontaneously combusts.

He’s been to Peter’s den before, many times, to make use of the wolf’s extensive library for research. He won’t lie and say his belly hadn’t fluttered when the man mentioned he’s the only person other than himself he’d trust in his private space, opening the door to him no matter the hour when his brain required stimulation.

It still surprises him how light and airy the place is, always imagining a man like Peter living in an underground network of caves, a single leather swivel chair behind a desk, and a white cat prowling around to fit his bond villain aesthetic, but it’s nothing like that at all. There are no secret doors hidden behind bookcases, no serial killer shrines, and certainly no rooms dedicated to plans for world domination.

There isn’t even a freaky sex dungeon.

He’s checked.

It’s quite minimalistic, especially for a man as materialistic as Peter. He’s not sure what astounds him more, the massive kitchen where the wolf cooks and bakes to professional levels every day or the extensive array of rare blooming plants and flower baskets scattered around every room.

Somehow, he never pegged the wolf for a plantsman. 

Typically, his nosiness and curiosity push him to scan the ins and outs of his surroundings, but since he’s already familiar with the several high-end pieces of antique furniture and overly pretentious color schemes, he just casually skims the room—a distraction more than anything.

Actually, his eyes are drawn to a few new display pillows on the couch, the bright purple matching nicely with the-

“Explain.”

Stiles swivels around, startling out of his thoughts, a hand lifting to rub the back of his neck nervously. “My grandmother called and invited me over for the holidays, but I just know I’m going to spend the week being asked the same questions over and over again, _‘Mischief, when are you going to settle down?’_ _‘Mischief, when are you going to have babies?’_ So, to get out of it, I may have told her I was spending this Christmas with my new boyfriend so that she didn’t think I was alone. Well, instead of just dropping it, she invited him too, and I just couldn’t say no to her, she got all teary-eyed and- fuck, Peter, I’m _totally_ screwed.”

Stiles threads his fingers through his hair, tugging harshly, pacing in front of Peter as the wolf seems content just to assess him through his meltdown.

“To get out of your family mentioning your love life, or lack thereof…” Peter speaks slowly, unbothered when Stiles glares murderously at him. “You decided to conjure up a significant other in the hopes they would just put it to rest?”

“Precisely.”

“You didn’t think for one second that would possibly make it worse?” Peter asks curiously, but Stiles can sense the rhetorical question, the man knowing the answer but still intent on teasing him. “Considering you don’t actually date.”

“I do date,” Stiles counters, deflating a little at Peter’s incredulous eyebrow rise. “Well, I would date, but I’ve been busy, you know, saving Beacon Hills, going to college-”

“Hm,” Peter hums, cutting him off. “Well, that sounds like quite the predicament.”

“So, you’ll help me?”

“Oh, I didn’t say that. I was merely observing the grave you seem to have dug yourself.” Peter grins wolfishly as he waltzes over to the couch, lowering himself onto the cushions with every ounce of grace he possesses. “Family really is a bitch, am I right?”

“Come on,” Stiles prods. “The amount of times I’ve saved your life, the least you could do is return the favor.”

“Stiles, you helped kill me,” Peter drawls, holding up his palm as Stiles goes to argue. “And yes, you may have saved my life once, but since you were in minus that one time brought you up to evens. That is, of course, until I risked my life for you in the wild hunt. By my calculations, that puts me ahead. If anything, _you_ owe _me_.”

Stiles' face morphs into an expression of hope, mouth split into a manic show of teeth, twisting his fingers together in an attempt to appear helpless. “Will you take payment in the form of an all-expenses-paid trip to Poland?”

“Not on your life.”

“Please, Peter,” Stiles sags, tone turning desperate. “It’s only a week; we'll leave on the twentieth and come back on the twenty-seventh, that’s all I’m asking, one week. You want me to beg? ‘cause I will, it’s not beneath me.”

“As delightful as having you on your knees sounds, dear boy,” Peter purrs, smirking that maddening smirk. “I really am quite busy.”

“You know what? Fine.” Stiles raises his hands in resignation, shaking his head wistfully, deciding to try a different approach. “I should’ve known better than to ask you anyways, how stupid I was to think we were actually friends.”

Peter cocks his head, amusement evident in his unbothered response. “Casual acquaintances, perhaps.”

“I’ll just ask Derek.” Stiles shrugs. “He’s more charming anyway.”

“My nephew Derek?” Peter laughs mockingly. “Have you met him? He’s about as _charming_ as a piece of drywall.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I think my family would adore him,” Stiles goads, knowing just what buttons to press to rile the man up. “I mean, he’s hot and well-educated, has a roaring sense of humor under that bad boy bravado. Sure, he doesn’t typically say much, but he’s a people pleaser, a real family man.”

Peter hums, feigning nonchalance, but Stiles clocks the twitch in the wolf’s eye, the minute tension in his jaw. “Well, good luck with that.”

“I doubt you would last three minutes; they’d probably run you out of the country with torches and pitchforks before you could even say _Merry Christmas_.” Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, only just holding back the snort at the wolf's unamused snarl. “Your people skills leave a lot to be desired.”

“I’ll have you know I’m great with people,” Peter snaps, huffing indignantly, turning in his spot on the sofa to glower at him. “Especially older relatives, I’m as charming as they come.”

“I think I’ll take my chances with Der-bear.” Stiles twirls on his heel, sashaying his way towards the door.

His hand is a hair away from curling around the handle, the countdown in his head almost reaching zero when Peter’s rumbling voice halts him.

“I’ll buy the plane tickets,” the man grumbles; the sound of his surrender, no matter how reluctant, is like sweet music to Stiles’ ears. “I refuse to sit in cattle class.”

Stiles’ face breaks into a triumphant grin, he may or may not also fist pump the air as the wolf stomps his way into his office, but that’s entirely his business.

~

Much to Stiles’ dismay and frustration, Peter refuses to accept reimbursement for the flights.

Not that his wallet could’ve particularly handled the assault, but it’s a matter of principle. While Peter hadn’t allowed him even a glance at the receipt, he did his own research and nearly choked at the price he discovered.

He’d sat most of the night thinking of ways he could pay the man back; the ideas started in the realm of steady monthly installments but quickly turned into far more _debasing_ forms of compensation.

Eventually, he’d relented, Peter mentioning how he’s so filthy rich those couple thousand-dollar tickets hadn’t even tickled the dregs of his fortune made him feel slightly less guilty about accepting the gift—or whatever it's intended to be. If the prick wants to be cocky about his wealth, well, Stiles is fine to exploit it, just this once.

Still, the point remains, Stiles would’ve been content sitting in the cheap seats, but no, Peter's pretentious ass will sit in nothing less than the best.

“It’s a thirteen-hour flight, Stiles,” Peter says loftily as he strolls his way down the aisle toward their assigned seats. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in economy on a flight between my apartment and your house, let alone a trip halfway across the globe.”

Stiles rolls his eyes at the back of the man’s head, gaze twitching downwards for a split second before he catches himself. “You’re such an asshole.”

Peter sighs, long-suffering, stopping abruptly to turn and face him. Stiles only just manages to dig his heels in before getting a face full of the wolf’s indecently bared chest—that v-neck should be illegal. “Stop complaining; you’re getting to sit in luxury for absolutely no fee.” The wolf motions his hand to the side, signaling towards his seat. “So, suck it up, relax, and take advantage of the free drinks.”

Stiles scowls at the man for bringing up the payment situation yet again, twirling on his heel to store his backpack in the overhead locker.

That’s when the last part of Peter's sentence hits him.

“ _Wait_ , free drinks?” He whirls back around, nearly giving himself whiplash.

“Yes, Stiles,” Peter drawls, annunciating his words as if talking to a slow child. “You don’t have to pay for anything.”

“Holy shit.” He flops down into his seat, wriggling his ass in the soft cushion. “I think I might enjoy this.”

“I’d disown you if you didn’t.”

Stiles has to admit, this is so much better than economy, by a country mile. He’s in his own little booth, no kids kicking his chair behind him, no drooling old men snoring beside him, and more than enough legroom to fit his gangly limbs in twice over.

It really is luxurious.

It takes him the first hour or so to fiddle and play with all the complimentary extras he remembers you have to pay an arm and a leg for in beggars’ row. He’s like a kid in a candy store, or so Peter likened him to as he _ooh_ ’ed and _ahh_ ’ed while rummaging through the toiletries kit, holding up each miniature lotion and dental product as if they were rare and exotic.

Once he’s milked that activity of all it’s fun, he turns his attention to the TV; while he knows screens are on the back of seats in every class, what you’re watching is at least a little more private in first class. He could totally close over his door and watch porn, and no one would know.

Except for Peter, the wolf would be able to hear and smell it but _hypothetically_ , he could if he really wanted to.

He does really want to, the public nature of it somewhat thrilling, but yet again, werewolf senses put a dampener on that theory. 

He settles down to watch a few new release movies, requesting a mini bottle of vodka and various snacks from the trolley on the hostesses every trip past. He’s not too proud to admit he has a slight buzz going on after only a few bottles, quickly becoming more and more disinterested in the screen with every sip.

“Anymore snack or drinks, sir?”

Stiles’ attention is drawn by the overly flirtatious lilt to the female voice outside his booth. He peeks around his door to be nosey and is greeted with the sight of the stewardess, or at least her deep-red skirted ass as she bends down, leaning unprofessionally close to Peter.

“Anything at all?”

Stiles rolls his eyes; he may even huff too, his inebriated state not allowing for any subtly.

Peter’s eyes snap to his, pupils sparkling with mirth. “Nothing for me, but I think my partner might care for another drink.” He points towards him, smirk expanding when Stiles dead-eyes him. “Vodka and coke, was it, sweetheart?”

Stiles nods curtly, lifting his empty plastic cup and bottle for the woman to throw in the trash, smiling condescendingly at the wolf.

“Of course,” she chirps, but Stiles can see her flounder a little when she realizes her seduction attempt has been foiled. “Right away.”

She hands Stiles a fresh cup with ice, followed quickly by the chilled can of soda and bottle of vodka. One final longing leer is directed at Peter before she scurries away.

Stiles’ eyebrows reach his hairline, shaking his head incredulously as he pours his drink. “I wasn’t aware I’d signed up for the mile-high club.”

Peter's answering expel of breath could be deciphered as a laugh. “She was just being friendly.”

“Peter, there’s being friendly, and there’s being _friendly,_ she was practically sitting in your lap.” He takes a long gulp of his drink, humming appreciatively as the sickly-sweet taste bursts across his tongue before he pitches his voice higher, arms gesturing dramatically. “Oops, turbulence, terribly sorry, _sir_ , I seem to have tripped and landed on your cock.”

“Careful, darling,” the man insists blithely. “One might think you were jealous.”

“Pfft, as if,” Stiles retorts with his whole body, hoping the wolf rules the subtle _blip_ in his heartbeat as effects of the alcohol.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” Peter winks salaciously, to which Stiles shuts the barrier between them in a rush lest the wolf catches the blush creeping across his cheeks at the implication.

“You might want to get some sleep,” the insufferable dick calls out to him after a moment. “Arriving at your grandmother's blind drunk probably isn’t the best course of action.”

Stiles bristles, flinging open the door again with a little more force than strictly necessary. “I am not _blind_ _drunk_ … just a little fuzzy.”

“Hm, well, I’m going to get a few hours in, so I can meet your grandmother refreshed and at the top of my game.” Peter pulls his mask over his eyes, reclining in his chair to settle. He looks the picture of pure, undisturbed relaxation.

Stiles’ impish heart just can’t allow that.

With a devilish beam and playful twinkle in his eye, his tipsy brain clocks the half-eaten bag of peanuts he’d abandoned an hour or so earlier. He picks them up, rifling through the packet, discarding anything less than fully intact. Once he’s found the right one, he takes aim, tongue hanging out his mouth in concentration, eyes squinting in a futile attempt to will away the blurring at the corner of his vision.

After a few seconds of careful deliberation, he flings the nut, holding his breath as it seemingly glides through the air in slow motion.

His face falls in disappointment when it misses Peter by a long shot, pouting in frustration before once again searching for the perfect ammo.

He silently fist-pumps the air as his second shot connects beautifully with the wolf's shoulder. Not quite his face as planned, but it’s progress.

_One more._

He giggles to himself as his thumb and forefinger pick out the largest salted morsel, turning on his seat to get a better angle.

He’s just about to launch his final attack when a scarily calm voice interrupts him, arm freezing mid-air, eyes widening like saucers—no doubt looking like a naughty child being caught in the act. “Stiles, I swear to the Gods, if you throw one more peanut in my general direction, I’ll push you out the emergency exit. Do. Not. Test. Me.”

Stiles blinks at the man, face and body displaying nothing of his threatening words. He equal part envies and curses the wolf’s supernatural senses. On the one hand, it must be pretty cool being able to perceive the world around you clearly even with your eyes closed, but on the other hand, it proves a pain in the ass for a mischievous little shit like Stiles.

He pops the nut into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously as he sags back into his seat. “Spoilt sport.”

Through his tantrum, he almost misses Peter’s self-satisfied grin at the corner of his eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, more coming right up!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleeping next to Peter while partaking in a fake relationship sucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

Poland is fucking freezing.

That’s it; that’s all he’s got to say.

~

The cab pulls up to a picturesque fairytale house, blanketed from roof to garden in fluffy white snow.

It’s exactly like he imagined, the foundations slightly wonky, a real whimsical charm to it that faintly reminds him of somewhere a witch might dwell.

Not that he’d _ever_ refer to his grandmother as a witch, but it just has that crooked and slightly magical feel to it.

It’s wonderful.

The porch has icicles dangling precariously from the guttering, a two-seater wicker settee situated underneath, probably frozen to the wood. There’s a cute little picket fence encasing the front garden and a cobbled stone path snaking its way from the open gate up to the house's steps.

Someone has cleared the way for them; the snow parted to the sides of the path as if recently shoveled. Stiles can’t help the small smile curling his lips at that.

“Ready?” Peter breaks the silence, voice low so as not to startle him.

Stiles’ smile widens, nodding his head to the wolf behind him, not tearing his gaze away from the fogging window. “Yeah, let’s do this.”

Stiles scrambles out of the cab first, distantly aware of Peter's door closing on the opposite side, attention too engrossed in taking in every detail, committing it all to memory.

It isn’t until the cab driver has lifted the bags out of the truck, Peter settling the tab, that he’s brought entirely out of his thoughts. The front door of the house creaks open as he imagined it would, a petite, white-haired woman holding a rustic wooden walking stick taking several cautious steps out into the chilled winter air.

His babcia is a lot shorter than he remembers her, or maybe he’s just taller? It almost brings a tear to his eye, realization finally dawning on him just how long it’s been.

As soon as her gaze lands on him, eyes squinting behind her jam-jar spectacles, her whole face lights up brighter than the north star. She suddenly looks ten years younger, softer. She makes her way down the front steps, clearly driven by excitement, but the limp in her right leg causes her to wobble.

Stiles’ heart clenches, his eyes stinging as he practically leaps through the gate, meeting her half-way, not even taking a second to contemplate as he bends down to wrap the little woman in a desperate embrace.

“Oh, Mischief,” she cries. “Is that really you?”

“It’s me, babcia,” Stiles sniffles into her shoulder, arms tightening, afraid to let go. 

“Dear boy, stand back, let me look at you.” She pats his arm, keeping her grip firmly on his forearms as he straightens to his full height, now towering over her. She assesses him, wrinkled fingers skating up to his biceps, squeezing gently. “So handsome, you look just like dearest Claudia.”

Her eyes are wet, tears clinging to her sparse eyelashes as she beams at him fondly. He’s sure he’s not much better, especially with the casual mention of his mother, but he pushes that away for now.

A flash of movement to the side of his vision gives him an excuse to change the subject. He coughs to clear his throat, thankful for the sudden remembrance of his travel companion. “Babcia, I want you to meet someone.” He takes a careful step back, motioning to where Peter is standing patiently, watching the heart-warming reunion unfold. “This is Peter. My… my boyfriend.”

She tilts the flimsy spectacles further up her nose, her greying eyebrows rising towards her hairline. “Oh, Lord have mercy,” she whispers in awe, pushing past Stiles, moving closer to Peter, looking much like a moth drawn to flame. “Come closer, dear boy,” she signals for the man to make his way further up the path. “So, I can fully appreciate your splendor.”

“Babcia,” Stiles chides on a groan.

“Oh hush, Mischief,” she dismisses his mild discomfort. “It’s not every day a man as handsome as this graces my doorstep.”

Stiles pouts, watching the woman as she proceeds to run her hand up Peter's arm. The wolf is clearly amused, and dare he say _pleased_ with the development. Pleased as punch. “But I thought I was handsome?”

“Oh, you are, baby,” she offers distractedly, too busy staring at Peter’s muscles to pay her grandson much notice. “In a delicate sort of way.”

Peter throws his head back, a hearty laugh leaving his throat, the sound warming up Stiles’ insides. The tendons in his deliciously thick neck pulse with the movement; Stiles only just resists the urge to bound forward and sink his teeth in.

His grandmother looks to be battling the same compulsion.

“I think I’ve been hasty in my decision for a partner, for you, madam, are absolutely delightful,” Peter purrs, lifting the woman’s hand toward his lips.

Stiles doesn’t miss the wink he gets as Peter bends down to place a soft kiss above her knuckles.

_Smug lecherous asshole._

“Oh, charming too,” his babcia coos, giggling like a schoolgirl. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

Peter stands back up straight, but Stiles notices he doesn’t let go of the woman’s hand. “Thank you for having me, Ma’am.”

“Oh, call me Em,” Babcia smiles up at him, clutching his hand tighter. “Or babcia, no need for such formalities.”

“Very well, thank you for having me, Em,” Peter corrects, doing a short little bow like an old English gentleman; Babcia’s face flushes at the gesture. 

Stiles rolls his eyes at the whole display.

“Come on in, Peter dear,” the woman exclaims after a moment of uncomfortable silence—for Stiles at least. “You much be freezing.”

His grandmother turns, swaying a little on her feet; she grabs onto Peter’s arm more vehemently, leaning closer for support.

The woman knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Here, let me help you,” Peter—the smarmy fucker—offers, linking his arm with hers, fully supporting the woman’s weight as he walks her towards the house. “You’ll be alright with the luggage, won’t you, darling?”

Peter doesn’t even give Stiles the chance to retort, just escorts his babcia down the path, laughing that deep, velvety laugh every time the woman says something casually inappropriate.

“My, my, Peter, you are very strong,” the woman murmurs coquettishly. “I would reckon you could lift me right over the threshold without any effort at all.”

“Why, Mrs. Gajos,” Peter murmurs playfully. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Shhh, don’t tell Mieczyslaw; he might get jealous.”

 _Pfft, jealous indeed._

~

The house is much larger on the inside than it looks from outside; it’s still cozy and comfortable—homey—but he’d never have guessed standing on the front porch that it was this spacious.

It’s like Narnia.

His babcia gives them a tour of the ground floor, taking them through each old-fashion styled room, chattering away merrily as she goes. None of the wallpaper coordinates with the carpets, the furniture odd and mismatched, the curtains a real eyesore, but Stiles can’t help grinning fondly as he scans every square inch of the place.

It’s tidy, and everything has its place no matter how strange, the vast array of multicolored ornaments sitting in a neat little row on the shelves, various pieces of art, framed and not, hanging over walls and doors. It’s what Stiles would tell his father is 'organized chaos', a domestic skill he seems to have inherited from the woman in front of him.

They all wander through the kitchen, dining room, living room, downstairs bathroom, and conservatory. The last of which has two large glass doors leading out into another garden, but this one is at least three times the size of the two patches of snow-covered grass at the front.

Despite its size, Stiles would describe the house as quaint, a real grandmotherly abode if he ever did see one. 

She takes them next up the old Victorian style staircase, each step squeaking ominously under their feet, the flooring a faded psychedelic patterned monstrosity, eye-catching at the very least, and Stiles is thoroughly enamored; the unique quirkiness of the place is so utterly ridiculous, it has him firmly under its spell.

They pass photographs hanging diagonally up the wall, some more than a little squint, just adding to the place's overall charm. He doesn’t linger too long on each one, not entirely recognizing everyone, but he guesses they’ll just be new cousins he hasn’t met yet.

There’s one he stops on, though, or rather a cluster of them.

They’re all of him at varying stages of his life, one as a wrinkly little bundle, one as a bucktoothed toddler, one as a smiling child covered in dirt and God knows what else, then the most recent one he recognizes as his graduation photo.

He notes it’s the most unflattering picture to have been taken that day. He guesses that’s his penance for not visiting, also isn’t it a grandmother's prerogative to hang up the ugliest photographs imaginable of their grandchildren?

The picture that catches his eye the most is the one slap bang in the middle. It’s of his mother and father, their wedding day he guesses by the clothing. His dad has one similar, but it’s not quite as intimate. The ones his father kept hanging on the walls back home are all of his mother smiling; he refused to put anything else on display. His favorite feature, he’d say, too much sadness had passed in those years leading up to her death that he wouldn’t do her the discredit of showing anything less than her widest, most blinding smiles.

This one, however, he’s never seen. It’s not even one he remembers from the time he’d snooped in his dad’s dusty lockbox hidden in the garage—things of hers the man couldn’t bring himself to get rid of, memories he couldn’t part with but also couldn’t live with.

The look his father is giving his mother in this single faded framed polaroid conveys more love than Stiles has ever seen in his lifetime. His mother has her head back, laughing at something no one but them will ever know, while his dad gazes down at her, a fond curl to his lips that’s more adoring than any expression Stiles has ever seen on his father’s face.

Surprisingly, looking at the motionless memory doesn’t make him tear up; instead, hope burns in his heart that one day he too will have someone look at him the same way.

A dream that one day he’ll find a love as everlasting and unconditional as his mother and fathers.

“That’s your mother?” A voice startles him from his thoughts, Peter making his way back down a few stairs to stand beside him.

Stiles nods, eyes fixed on the photograph. “Yeah.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“She is,” he agrees before correcting himself, “ _was_.”

“Your grandmother was right; you look just like her.”

He turns to Peter then, not at all expecting to see the warm smile or the sincerity twinkling in his eyes. It’s a gesture that looks too soft, too _caring_ on such a man, and for a moment, it throws him for a loop.

“Come on,” Babcia hollers from the top of the winding staircase, grabbing both of their attentions. “I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

They all walk down the hallway in relative silence, passing several closed doors, _guest rooms_ Stiles guesses, where the rest of the family will be staying when they arrive on the twenty-fourth.

“There’s a bathroom in there.” Babcia motions towards another closed door, finally breaking the quiet. “But your bedroom has an en-suite with a bath and shower, so I doubt you’ll need to use it.”

She opens the door to a cool colored room, all light blues and whites. Stiles for a moment thinks they’ve stepped into someone else’s house, the décor within these four walls startingly different from any other room they’ve seen. It isn’t until his eyes clock the bookcase stationed in the corner, shelves littered with what seems to be an obscene collection of Russian dolls, that he’s confident he’s not wandered into one of the neighbor’s homes by accident.

This room is less filled with eccentric clutter, just a wardrobe, two chests of drawers, and two bed-side tables all in plain light oak. There’s also a full standing mirror that appears to be antique and a spooky-looking rocking chair that Stiles just knows he’s going to have to cover if he expects to get even a wink of sleep.

There’s also, of course, a king-sized four-poster bed right in the center of the room; there’s not much he can really comment on it, except maybe the fact that there’s only _one_. 

He’s not sure why he expected anything different, hadn’t actually given much thought to their sleeping arrangements, but for some baffling reason, his brain hadn’t—up until this very second—come to the obvious conclusion that they’d be sleeping together. But, of course, they would be, they’re _dating._

Fuck, he can already see this being incredibly awkward.

“I’ll let you both get settled,” his babcia says, standing at the door watching Peter a little too closely as he hauls their luggage into the room. “I’m just going to grab you a few things, blankets and such, back in a moment.”

“Thank you, Em,” Peter expresses his gratitude in a sweet, syrupy voice; it makes Stiles want to perforate his own eardrums. “You’re such a treasure.”

Babcia leaves the room with a little more bounce in her step; it isn’t until she’s halfway down the hall does Peter speak again. “Do you have a preference of side, dearest?”

Stiles frowns at him, has been since he first opened his mouth. “You’re sleeping closest to the door, so if anyone breaks in through the night, they’ll murder you first.”

Peter snorts. “Fair enough.”

The wolf moves gracefully around the room, placing each bag at the relevant side of the bed, completely ignoring Stiles’ stink eye.

“Will you stop flirting with my grandmother?” Stiles grumbles eventually, refusing to admit to himself how irritating it is to be ignored by Peter. “It's gross.”

“I’m just being friendly,” Peter chirps over his shoulder, his smirk reaching colossal heights.

“You’re being smarmy; you’ve proved your point, you’re way more charming than Derek, now drop it.” Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, trying his best to look threatening, but with the way Peter cocks his eyebrow at him, he’s failing miserably.

“I can’t help being so insanely attractive, witty, and charismatic,” he offers airily, not in the least bit joking. “I mean, can you really blame your babcia for having taste?”

“You know what, I think it’s your modesty that’s drawing her in.”

Peter’s face twists as if he’s thinking about it, nodding in agreement. “It’s a possibility.”

“You’re insufferable, do you know that?” Stiles grits through his teeth, arms flying out to his sides in surrender. “I don’t even know why I asked you to come.”

“Now that’s just mean,” Peter pouts in jest. “I’m already having such a good time.”

“Here, dears," his grandmother comes back into the room, cutting through their conversation. She’s carrying a bundle of various colored knitted blankets in the hand not gripping her walking stick. "The temperature tends to plummet during the night.”

She places the fabrics on the bed before turning to address them both, a serious expression on her face. “Now, you’re a new couple, so I’m not so out of touch to believe there won’t be some hanky-panky going on under this roof, but if you could keep it in the bedroom, that’s all I ask, I don’t think my heart could cope with seeing what’s under those clothes.”

Stiles’ mouth falls open on a gape; it takes him a few seconds to come back online, shaking his head vigorously. “Jesus suffering Christ, no, just no.” He’s lost control of his arm movements, praying to whatever God that'll listen to just open up the ground beneath him and swallow him whole.

Peter—the fucking dick—is loving every damn minute, mouth tightened to a thin line, looking one more inappropriate comment away from bursting into unrestrained cackles.

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Mischief,” his babcia continues as if Stiles isn’t gawking at her in utter disbelief, just carrying on as if she’s merely discussing the weather. “I remember when I first got with your Dziadek, God rest his soul, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other, hell, we were at it day and night.”

Peter snorts, cheeks inflating to keep the sound in before he claps his hand over his mouth, disguising his delight with a cough, moving to the other side of the bed out of view of Babcia so he can slyly die of laughter at Stiles’ expense.

“I really didn’t need to know that,” Stiles groans before dropping his voice to a barely-there whisper. “Fuck, how is this my life?”

“I’m just letting you know; I have no issues with it,” the woman explains once again, standing to make her way towards the door. Stiles runs his hands over his face, peeking through his fingers just waiting on her parting line. “I take my hearing aid out before bed, and let me tell you, once this little bugger is out, I wouldn’t hear an explosion from three feet away, so be as loud as you want.”

Stiles lets out a long exhale of breath, counting to three in his head before answering with a smile that’s probably more of a grimace. “Thanks, Babcia; I’ll keep that in mind.”

The woman grins at them both before leaving the room, her footsteps creaking as she makes her way back downstairs.

Stiles reels around to face Peter, who still has a look on his face as if this is the funniest reality TV show he’s ever watched. “Is it too late to catch a flight home?”

“Oh, we aren’t going anywhere,” Peter states, taking out a few folded articles of clothing from his bag to place in the drawers. Stiles makes a noise between a whine and a groan, flopping back onto the bed in a melodramatic sulk. “You think I’d miss a whole week of you being reduced to a complete and utter puddle of embarrassment? Not a chance in hell, this is the best fun I’ve had in years.”

Stiles huffs under his arm from where it’s landed unceremoniously across his face. “You really are a sad individual.”

~

Sleeping next to Peter while partaking in a fake relationship sucks.

He wants to reach over and touch, wrap his arms around the wolf’s waist and snuggle into his supernatural heat, but he can’t, and it fucking _sucks._

He’s shimmied himself as close to the edge of the bed as humanly possible, internally debating whether or not it would be weird to sneakily slip a pillow beside him, just for more of a barrier.

“Stiles,” Peter barks. “Quit thinking so loud and go to sleep.”

“I am sleeping.”

Peter huffs, rolling slightly to look over his shoulder, snorting as he notices the half a mile of space between them. “Christ, it’s as if you’ve never shared a bed with another man before.” He goes to roll back over but stops himself. “ _Wait_ , have you?”

“Of course I have, dickshit,” Stiles grumbles, wriggling in his spot in a futile attempt to get comfy within his three inches of space. “Lots of times.”

Peter releases an impatient sigh, reaching around to grab Stiles by the arm, manhandling him closer to the center of the bed, putting an abrupt stop to his squirming. “Scott doesn’t count.”

Stiles lets out a high-pitched noise he’s not proud of, staring open-mouthed at the utter audacity. “Well, it does in this scenario, since it’s pretty much the same thing, y’know, _platonic_ bed-sharing.”

Peter shoots him a filthy grin, the leering glint in his eye making Stiles question his life choices. “Tell your dick that, sweetheart.”

“W-what?” Stiles splutters, heart-stopping as his hand impulsively shoots to his crotch region to double-check.

He exhales an irked breath through his nose when the wolf’s shoulders begin to shake with barely contained chuckles, glaring murderously as it dawns on him that he’s just being toyed with.

Peter winks before turning back onto his side. “Good night, darling.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles spits, whirling around dramatically, taking half the blankets with him in his rage.

Fucking _sucks._

~

Day two, and they’ve been tasked by his babcia to get the last few groceries, things she missed on her shopping list that are crucial to the main Christmas meal. Plus, they need to pick up any ingredients Peter needs for the turkey feast he’ll be cooking on the twenty-fifth.

Babcia wants to experience a Christmas like they would’ve put together at home; says she can’t remember the last Christmas she had that wasn’t traditionally Polish. It was more than likely when his mom and dad first moved to the US to build their lives; she probably got invited over a lot back then to keep up with the big family get-togethers.

His mom loved to cook, especially for big groups, but she never really kept up Polish traditions as such; they quickly adopted the American way of living, and with that came a different way to spend the holidays.

“Apparently, _Christmas_ is celebrated on the twenty-fourth here, or at least that day holds a lot of significance,” Stiles recites as he steers the shopping cart through the busy store. “They don’t typically do the whole turkey and trimmings like we do, I mean, I’m sure there’s many that do, but Babcia is old-fashioned and sticks to celebrating the way her family has for generations.”

Stiles picks up a few items from the shelves, placing food in the cart as he continues to ramble. “They have dinner on Christmas eve after the first star comes into the sky; there’s no meat, well, except fish. Doesn’t that count as meat?” Stiles questions, unsure, but then shrugs, just barrels on, not really expecting Peter to answer his mindless muttering. “It’s basically twelve dishes consisting of mostly carp and a wide array of vegetables. Oh, and apparently decorating the house and tree is a family affair; it’s done in the morning or afternoon before everyone sits down for supper.”

Stiles dodges a few passers-by, driving the trolley towards the produce aisle, standing a moment to search for the next item on the list. “I’m actually excited about it; it’s something different.” He picks up a few beets, humming to himself absentmindedly as he checks them over for freshness. “I think she wants us to feel at home while also showing me what my mom and dad grew up with. It’s kinda like we’re doing a Christmas swap.”

They make their way down the last few aisles, stopping every so often when they find something they need.

Peter steps up beside him, reaching over his head to grab a can of cranberry sauce from the top shelf, finally deciding to chime into the—thus-far, mostly one-sided—conversation. “I have to say, I’m rather impressed you know so much about Polish Christmas traditions,” he hums, looking at Stiles as he places the tin into the almost full cart. “Has that been ingrained into you by your parents since you were young?”

Stiles snorts, continuing to move, the wolf keeping up pace beside him. “No, I googled it last night.”

Peter stops dead in his tracks, expression dry. “You really had my respect there for a second.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Stiles chirps playfully, not sorry at all. “I don’t know shit about Polish traditions, I remember my mom cooking a few Polish dishes when I was young, mostly pierogi ‘cause its dad’s favorite, but we never followed any traditions that they grew up with. After Babcia mentioned the turkey dinner like it was an anomaly to her, I did some research—as I do—to see exactly what we’re in for, and I have to say, I was _not_ disappointed.”

“It does sound rather intriguing, I must admit.” Peter nods in interest. “I’m sure whatever is placed in front of us will be delicious; Em is an excellent cook.”

Stiles groans, shaking his head. “Kiss-ass.”

His belly only flips slightly at the answering smirk, rolling the trolley in the opposite direction before he’s called out on the flush to his cheeks.

~

Did Stiles mention how much it sucks to sleep in the same bed as the man he’s been pining after since he was seventeen?

Yeah, well, he’s saying it again.

It fucking _sucks_.

Today could be perceived as the same as every other morning, his freakishly long limbs tangled up in several layers of wool. The dawn breaking outside, casting a subtle warm glow through the room, a beautiful contrast to the biting chill in the air.

There’s only one slight difference, one teeny-tiny, minuscule detail that sets this morning apart from all the others. As Stiles opens his eyes, smacking his lips sleepily, he becomes acutely aware of something.

Granted, it takes him a moment, brain still fogged from dreaming, but that _something_ is the crushing weight of an incredibly hot—furnace hot—werewolf plastered to his back, arms wrapped around him like an octopus. Not only that but when he wriggles in place to test the clutch of said wolf laying half on top of him, that’s when he also notices the very hard dick poking him just above the ass.

Well, at least he thinks it’s a dick unless Peter sleeps with a goddamn shotgun in his briefs.

“Peter,” Stiles whisper-shouts, gritting his teeth when he only gets an intelligible grunt in return. “Wake the fuck up.”

Peter’s arms seem to move of their own accord, curling around his body tighter, pulling him closer to the wolf’s chest, and Stiles refuses to admit he’s being subconsciously spooned by literal Satan.

The move also brings Stiles’ ass into even closer contact with the man's clothed cock, each inch no doubt printing itself into his skin with the fierceness of the embrace.

“Shhh,” Peter’s face nuzzles further into the back of his neck, inhaling deeply, stubble tickling as he mindlessly scents him, the roughness of his voice vibrating against his bare flesh. “Go sleep.”

Stiles has to stop himself from groaning, from just saying _fuck it_ and leaning back into the wolf’s hold. It’s totally unfair how attractive the man sounds while still half asleep; his voice does things to Stiles normally—tingly things—but right now, the deep, rasping rumble echoing between his eardrums will be masturbation fodder for years to come.

God give him strength.

“Peter,” Stiles hisses a little more forcefully. “Get up.”

The wolf huffs, rolling onto his back without so much as opening his eyes, sighing contentedly once he’s settled again.

It isn’t until Stiles sits up, twisting around to glare at the wolf’s eyelids does the man decide to speak again. “What?”

“Seriously? You were frickin’ snuggling me, dude,” Stiles explains, exasperated, hands gesturing wildly even though the man isn’t even acknowledging him.

Peter hums. “Apologies.”

The bastard doesn’t sound sorry at all; he actually sounds completely unbothered, as if waking up spooning with someone you’re not even dating—hell, you barely even call a friend—is entirely normal.

Stiles sighs long and put out, head drooping as the initial fight leaves him. It’s not as if he actually minded, for that split second when he first woke up, before the realization hit him, he’d felt contented, safe, and cozy. The feeling of being surrounded by Peter, his rich musky scent, his supernatural warmth, his soft, breathy snores gave him peace.

Even just for a moment.

The whole dick thing was a bit of an overkill, but he can’t exactly scold the dude for it, it happens, and it’s not as if Peter would actually be embarrassed if he called him out on it, so he just ignores it.

Well, if his eyes wander ever so slightly down the torso of the stretched-out wolf now on full display, can that really be held against him?

The blankets are pooling around the man's thick muscled thighs, Stiles having accidentally kicked them away in his haste to sit up. While Peter thankfully wears a t-shirt to bed—after Stiles’ heavy protests against him sleeping completely naked—he still refused, quite adamantly, to wear pajama pants.

_‘Wolves run hot, Stiles; I’m not about to layer up and die of heat exhaustion just to preserve what’s left of your innocence.’_

The thin slip of black cotton does literally nothing to conceal what’s underneath, the fabric straining with its efforts to leave even a shred of something to the imagination.

Stiles knows he’s being lecherous, knows he should look away, but his eyes are transfixed, practically drooling as he explores every stitch over the man’s impressive bulge.

Christ, he has issues. 

“You could help with that.”

Stiles' gaze snaps towards the voice, face flooding red as he notices the grin splitting Peter's face, the wolf’s blue eyes unfortunately open, watching him intently.

Stiles stares back for a moment, mouth opening and closing as no sound comes out, embarrassment clawing at his stomach at being caught ogling the sleeping man’s figure.

It isn’t until he’s about to apologize does he catch Peter’s brow cocking in question, his smile turning positively wolfish, his mind finally clocking onto what the wolf had said.

“You’re such a cad.” 

Peter shrugs. “Worth a shot, but I wasn’t the one staring at my cock with my tongue hanging out.”

Stiles squeaks indignantly, flinching as if slapped. “My tongue was not _hanging out.’_ ”

Peter’s smirk widens, closing his eyes once again, his relaxed body language radiating self-satisfaction. “If you say so.”

Stiles storms to the en-suite, his skin prickling as the wolf’s hearty laugh follows him to the door.

He feebly hopes for the sake of his fragile dignity that Peter is too tired for his supernatural senses to actually pick up exactly how affected he is. That his insinuation was purely for the sake of playfully humiliating him for his own sadistic amusement and not because he knows Stiles is gagging to ride him six ways to Sunday.

He also hopes, however uselessly, that the hand clasped over his mouth, the hissing sprays of water, and thick, tiled bathroom walls are enough of a barrier to keep his filthy, desperate moans from reaching the wolf’s ears.

~

“If you two have nothing else to do,” Babcia’s voice echoes through the living room. “You can get started on the cookies.”

“Cookies?” Stiles perks up from where he’d gradually slumped into the sofa during whatever boring Polish program was on the TV.

“Yes, boy, it’s tradition, I make them every year, but since I have two strapping young men staying with me this year, you can take the burden off your dear old babcia.”

“I don’t know how to-”

“Don’t worry, dear,” Peter’s whimsical voice pipes up from behind him. “I’m sure we can manage just fine.”

“Kiss-ass,” Stiles mumbles under his breath, knowing the wolf will catch it.

“Such a darling boy,” Babcia croons, limping over to cup Peter’s stubbled cheek in her hand, one step away from pinching it. “Where did you ever find such a man?”

“Lurking in a dark corner,” Stiles drawls, glowering at the wolf as he laps up the attention. “How many are we expected to make?”

“At least eighty.”

Stiles flails. “ _Eighty_?!”

His babcia nods, utterly unaffected by Stiles’ outburst. “Baked and decorated.”

Stiles groans long and loud, sagging back into the lumpy cushion beneath him. “We’ll be here until the end of the year.”

“I sure hope not, Mischief,” his grandmother finally turns to address him, seemingly done with staring adoringly into the wolf’s eyes. “Your aunts and uncles will be arriving in two days, and I would like to be able to offer them a cookie at dinner.”

“Last time I checked, I didn’t have eighty relatives.”

“Ack, don’t act so glib, Mischief,” the woman scolds him, hands coming up to rest on her hips in a move too similar to one of his mothers. “I have to have extras for them to take home.”

“Ugh, fine,” Stiles relents, knowing he’s fighting a losing battle. “How do we make them?”

The tiny woman makes her way into the kitchen, signaling wordlessly for them both to follow her. She reaches into one of the drawers under the counter, pulling out a thick, plainly covered notebook.

“My recipe is in here.” She hands the baking equivalent of War and Peace to Peter, tapping on the cover to iterate her words before flipping it open a few pages. “Follow it to the letter.” She obviously trusts the wolf with the task more than she does Stiles, and that doesn’t grate on his nerves at all, not one bit. “I’m going to take a nap; my leg is proving a pain in the ass.”

“Would you like me to bring you up some tea, Em?” Peter offers in that smooth, syrupy voice of his. “Something to help you sleep.”

“That would be lovely, Peter,”

“ _That would be lovely, Peter,_ ” Stiles mocks petulantly to himself, rolling his eyes at the back of his babcia’s head.

Once the woman finally leaves the kitchen, hobbling on her stick, Peter turns to him, his expression disgustingly self-satisfied. “Don’t be jealous, dear heart; I only have eyes for you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Stiles snaps at the wolf's teasing, ripping the book from his infuriatingly smug hands to look at the open page. “The recipe is in Polish.”

“No shit, Stiles,” Peter drawls as if it’s the most obvious thing in all the world.

Stiles grinds his teeth together, just about holding onto the last of his patience. “I don’t know Polish.”

“Seriously, your whole family is Polish, and you never bothered to learn the language?”

“No shit.”

“Give it here,” the wolf huffs, snatching the recipe back, glancing at the scrawled foreign words on the yellowing paper. “I’ll translate it into English; you make your babcia’s tea.”

Stiles startles, blinking at the man as his sentence processes. “ _You_ know Polish?”

“I know many languages,” the wolf answers distractedly, but Stiles doesn’t fail to notice the slight preening swell to his chest. _Peacocking bastard_. “Ancient and modern.”

Stiles wills his face to stay blank. “Of course, you do.”

~

They move around each other in relative harmony, mainly keeping to their designated workspaces at either end of the kitchen, only really mingling when they need something from the fridge or cupboard. 

Stiles is surprisingly enjoying the domesticity of it, Peter humming away under his breath as he mixes ingredients in his bowl.

Stiles doesn’t think the wolf is even aware he’s doing it, just so relaxed in the comfortable silence that his mind is subconsciously providing an ambiance. He’s not about to comment on it; he just smiles to himself, concentrating on his own task, hands mushing the dough onto the floured worktop before rolling.

It’s not long before their creations are placed in the oven, Peter not even mentioning Stiles’ _rustic_ shapes as he sets a timer.

“So," Stiles breaks the quiet. "What do we do now?”

“Clear up and wait for them to bake.”

Stiles nods, turning to his workstation to begin scooping up the mess. He does take a moment first to curse his past self for not being more careful, wondering how the hell he managed to get cookie batter up the walls.

“Hey, Stiles,” Peter calls out to him.

“Wha-” Stiles turns but doesn’t get to finish his sentence as he gets a handful of flour blown right into his face, the cloud infiltrating his open mouth. “You son of a bitch,” he coughs, choking on the particles clinging to the back of his throat. “You’ll pay for that.”

He grabs an egg out of the carton still on the bench, taking no time to think about it, he flings it with all the power in his arm in Peter’s direction.

He’s not sure who’s more stunned when it hits its mark—right on the side of the wolf's face—him or Peter, but he doesn’t take the time to contemplate, just whoops as the man stares at him open-mouthed.

“You little bastard,” he growls, eyes flaring supernatural blue.

Stiles’ face falls, heart thumping wildly when he notices the claws. “Oh, shit.”

He takes a run and jump, ducking behind the breakfast island for cover as Peter coats his hands in flour, launching himself across the kitchen with the supernatural speed and reflexes he seemed to have been missing a moment ago.

Stiles squeals—a very manly squeal—as Peter tackles him to the ground, his limbs sprawling every which way as the wolf’s bulk pins him to the cold tiled floor. Peter rumbles low in his throat, a sound not entirely human as a triumphant fanged grin creeps over his egg-stained face.

Stiles wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it, but in the next moment, Peter’s fingers are coating every inch of his hair, neck, and face with the white powder.

“You’re such a dick,” Stiles splutters, squirming pitifully, trying and failing to wriggle away from the wolf’s wandering hands.

He finally sags in defeat, realizing how pointless it is to try escape from under a werewolf.

Peter chuckles, a delightful thing that makes Stiles feel all warm and fuzzy, the sound revibrating through his bones. The wolf assesses him, shift slowly receding, fingers still playing absentmindedly with the loose strands of hair curling onto Stiles’ face. “It’s a good look on you,” he whispers a little too softly, tongue peeking out to wet his lips as every ounce of air seems to evaporate around them.

The only thing left to be heard is stilted breaths, dull _thumping_ beats of their hearts, blood rushing past his ears.

And then the blaring ring of the timer.

Peter winces at the loud sound, snapping out of the momentary trance, using his heightened strength to lift himself up without much effort.

Stiles mourns the loss of the wolf’s weight on top of him, but only for a second, reaching out to grab the hand Peter is offering, letting the wolf haul him to his feet.

He dusts off as much flour from his clothes as he can as Peter takes the cookies out of the oven. Stiles sighs to himself when he notices his efforts are a lost cause, the white remnants on his hands making the mess worse, so he gives up.

Stiles steps towards the oven, extending his hand to grab a steaming hot cookie to taste, but Peter slaps his hand away. “Let them cool first, you heathen.”

“Fuck that; I’ve waited this long; let me try the damn things.” He lifts one of his oddly shaped concoctions towards his mouth, his fingertips burning.

The smell of fresh spices assaults his senses; he takes a bite of the corner before dropping the rest on the counter as the heat becomes too much to hold.

He alternates between blows and chews, trying frantically to cool down what’s in his mouth as the wolf shakes his head at his antics.

It isn’t until the food in his mouth has cooled down that his tastebuds finally clock onto the flavor. 

“What the-” Stiles spits out the half-chewed cookie into his hand, the god-awful taste lingering on his tongue. He runs his gloopy fingers under the tap, grimacing at the texture as it slides towards the drain.

After making a few more _bleurgh_ noises for effect, he grabs a can of soda from the refrigerator, downing the fizzing liquid in record speed, grateful that it even subtly masks the taste. “Well, those taste absolutely vile,” he complains, staring down at the biscuits as if they’re smeared in shit. “Are you sure you copied the recipe right?”

“Yes, Stiles,” Peter sighs. “My Polish may be slightly rusty, but I’m more than capable of translating a few simple ingredients.”

“Well, they don’t taste like Babcia’s cookies.” Stiles folds his arms across his chest, unwilling to accept the wolf’s answer. He definitely fucked up the recipe or spiked them with something. “Not how I remember them anyway.”

“Stiles,” the wolf drags out his name, trying to catch his attention.

“What?”

Peter's mouth is twisted in distaste as he chews on one of the offending cookies. “Which spice did you use?”

“What are you talking about?” Stiles narrows his eyes, stomping closer to the counter, reaching forward to grab the relevant jar from the spice rack. “I used the cinnam- Oh shit.”

Peter rolls his eyes in that signature Hale way of his. “You really are hopeless.”

“How is this my fault? It looks like cinnamon,” he exclaims, shaking the jar in front of the wolf. “What the fuck even is Chinese five-spice anyway?”

“To be fair, it does include cinnamon, but it’s probably the least noticeable flavor out of the five,” Peter explains, the expression on his face turning mirthful. “I’d say in this instance; the star anise is the _star_ of the show.”

“I hate you.”

“Lie.” The man smirks, and Stiles is getting the burning urge to punch him. “Now, tell me, Stiles, did you use salt instead of sugar, or is this the peak of your culinary mishap?”

“Hey, screw you, if you hadn’t been distracting me with flinging flour across the place, I’d-”

“Oh, so it’s _my_ fault you couldn’t read the label?” Peter quirks his eyebrow, interrupting his rant—the rant he knows falls flat since the flour flinging happened after the batter went in the oven but it's too late to turn back now—not even bothering to conceal his amusement at Stiles’ expense. “The label that’s actually in English.”

“Yes!”

Stiles swears to God if this fucker rolls his eyes one more time, he’s going to be shitting Chinese five-spice for weeks.

“Throw those in the trash; they’re inedible; you can help decorate mine.”

“How noble of you,” Stiles mumbles, tossing the ruined biscuits in the bin before sliding up beside Peter. “Who’d have thought you were actually capable of sharing?”

Peter snorts. “I’m not. You think I’m about to stand here and decorate forty Christmas cookies by myself while you stand there and look pretty, pouting and throwing a tantrum that yours failed?”

Stiles stamps his foot on the ground. “I’m not throwing a tantrum.”

_Fuck._

“Uh-huh.”

“Shut up and give me the piping bag,” Stiles hisses through his teeth, holding out his hand expectantly, glaring at the still smirking wolf.

“Ask nicely.”

It takes him a moment, but Stiles manages to reign in his petty temper, the mischievous part of him deciding to put on the theatrics.

He widens his eyes, fluttering his long curving lashes, rolling his lip between his teeth, hand still outstretched. “Please, Daddy,” he whines in a high, childlike voice, only just managing to hold back his devilish grin when the wolf’s head snaps up. “Let me help you.”

The man snarls, throwing the filled piping bag at his chest, not caring if he catches it or not. “You’re such a brat.”

Stiles giggles, wiggling his hips in triumph.

He decides to ignore Peter’s heavy breathing and the sudden darkness of his pupils; it’s probably just his imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not that anyone asked, but Babcia and her house are both based on my Granny and the grotto in which she lives. She too has literally zero filter and stocks her shelves with random as fuck trinkets she's collected over the last eighty years. Her humour is blunt; her curtains are god awful, none of her decor matches, but hey, it's a place I feel safest, and some of my fondest memories include that amazing woman and her ugly-ass house, so I just had to use them as a reference.
> 
> Also, slight disclaimer: while this is set in Poland, I am not familiar with any Polish traditions or the such. I had to Google research quite a lot for this fic and ask my Polish work colleague, but I decided in the end just to mention a few bits that seemed to be recurring on every page I read and not focus too much on it. The last thing I want to do is offend anyone by writing a whole load of waffle on a topic I'm not intimately familiar with, so while I've taken Stiles and Peter to Poland, it's just for plot and scene purposes, don't dwell on it too much.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles blinks at him, silence stretching between them before he chuffs, unbelieving, tearing his gaze away while muttering under his breath, “smooth fucker.”
> 
> Peter smirks, not failing to notice how the corner of the boy’s mouth tilts upwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Peter's POV.
> 
> To pull this back from becoming a novel, I kept the introductions of new characters to a bare minimum, sorry if this bothers you, but I didn't want to write a long drawn out paragraph of character profiles and take the story too much away from Stiles and Peter.
> 
> Fair warning, Peter is as soft as fuck in this. I don't even care. 
> 
> Hope you like it so far!

Being this close to Stiles is proving more of a self-punishment than he first anticipated. He thought getting to spend a whole week with the boy, without pack disturbances, would settle his wolf, but it’s making it worse.

It’s four days in, and Peter still nearly wolfs out every time he walks into the bedroom, their mingling scents driving him towards delirium. Stiles’ sweet apple and honey spiced aroma is saturated into absolutely every surface, and it’s slowly giving him an aneurism.

When Stiles had asked him to pretend to be his lover, part of him leaped into the sky, elated that the human would even think of him, hope bubbling in his chest that maybe, just maybe, the boy felt the same.

However, that was quickly quelled when he’d mentioned they were merely _friends,_ that he had no one else to ask. The boy just needed his aid; then they’d go back to how they were before with Peter silently pining in the corner.

He doesn’t _pine;_ that’s a gross exaggeration, that sort of thing is well beneath him, but if thoughts of the boy constantly assault his head every waking moment of the day— _every single day—_ well, that’s just something he can’t seem to help.

Stiles doesn’t have feelings for him. The boy is, for want of a better word, _loud_ and wears his emotions on his sleeve; it would be as apparent as the nose on his face if there was even a glimmer of mutual attraction to be found.

Sure, Peter has caught the rich musky scent of his arousal more than once on the trip, but he can’t exactly blame the boy. Peter knows what he looks like, and he’s positive Stiles just hasn’t yet grown out of those unpredictable teenage hormones that seemed to follow him around like an insistent cloud of smoke whenever he was still a virgin.

Peter has teased him on it a few times, relishing in the delightful blush creeping over his creamy skin, but Stiles never bites back, just shakes his head and leaves the room or rolls his eyes and huffs. It’s frustrating and doesn’t at all help Peter gouge his genuine reactions to the flirtatious attention. True, the boy banters with him better than anyone he’s ever known, Peter’s match in every battle of wit between them, but when it comes down to the more provocative forms of communication, he rarely gets anything more than a fly away comment in retort.

It’s one of the reasons why Peter has, thus far, deigned to keep his distance, why he knows confessing his feelings would be entirely pointless—no matter how great his desire to do so.

Who’s he kidding? That excuse is actually very low on the scale. Something as trivial as reluctance—or inexperience—to partake in flirtations isn’t enough to deter a man like Peter from going after what he wants most; no, the fact of the matter is, Stiles is young enough to be his son.

Well, that’s not entirely true, Peter is in his prime, not _old_ by any stretch of the imagination, but that doesn’t take away from the significant age gap between them.

Peter isn’t wholly averse to the idea of being referred to as the _Daddy_ type, could even say it’s a turn-on in certain circumstances, but what he’s not overly ecstatic about is the admittance of his devotion inevitably reaching the ears of the boy’s _actual_ daddy, or should he say, the sheriff who once arrested him for murder. 

Peter isn’t a coward, but the prospect of Noah Stilinski shooting him full of wolfsbane bullets doesn't exactly appeal to him. _Funnily enough._

What can he say? His self-preservation instincts are impeccable, and he doesn’t believe Stiles' father would be too keen on the idea of a man of Peter’s advanced years courting his twenty-four-year-old son—especially if he found out he's been lusting after him since the boy was merely seventeen. So, for a more logical reason, he's held off on making his feelings known due to the fact that he doesn’t want to—if by some miracle Stiles ever felt the same way—be the one to drive a wedge between the boy and his father.

He just wants to reiterate very plainly; he is _not_ a coward.

Taking the sheriff out of the equation, at the end of the day, why on earth would Stiles ever be interested in a man only a skip and a jump away from forty—give or take a few years—when he could have someone his own age?

Peter isn’t one to be nosy, but he's noticed quite coincidentally that Stiles hasn't had any relationships with potential since his fling with the little red-head banshee. Not that it really matters; the boy said it himself he's been busy with his studies while simultaneously carrying the pack on his shoulders for the last several years, so Peter can't blame him for not wanting to include a relationship on top of that.

Peter knows better than anyone how focused Stiles is when it comes to education; it's important to him, so he’s perhaps never had more than a few fumbling’s here or there. Still, Peter can almost guarantee none of those women or men will have resembled him in any shape or form. Why would they? Stiles could have anyone he wanted on a silver platter, a subtle flutter of his lashes, teeth rolling his bottom lip, and they’d be enthralled. So, why on earth would he waste his time chasing the affections of someone like Peter?

Don’t get him wrong, he knows his worth, knows his many strengths and very few weaknesses—reluctantly admitted—but that doesn’t seem to shake that little niggling voice in the back of his head, the one that sounds an awful lot like the last remaining shadow of his ever-dwindling morality.

_'You’ll never be good enough.'_

All that unpleasantness aside, Peter is actually enjoying the trip, Stiles’ grandmother is a gem, and after the hectic few days they’ve had preparing everything for the rest of the family’s arrival, he’s looking forward to settling down to celebrate the holidays with Stiles by his side, even if it is only for appearance's sake.

If this trip is the only time he’ll ever get to be this close to the boy without the pretenses of pack business looming over them, well, he’s going to make the most of it.

~

Sleeping next to Stiles is challenging, to say the least.

All Peter wants to do is run his scruff over his fragile neck, mark him, pin him to the mattress and use his hands, teeth, and tongue to cover every inch of his body with his scent.

But he can’t.

_Obviously._

As already established, Stiles isn’t his. He has to reign in his desires, settle his wolf every goddamn night, the boy entirely unaware of how much he’s driving Peter to distraction. Everything he does is effortlessly adorable, making Peter more and more attracted to him each passing day.

The way his long limbs knot around the bedcovers, his soft whimpers as he dreams, the way those sinfully pouty lips hang open just a fraction as he drools onto the pillow.

All things that should irritate a man like Peter.

He expected to grind his teeth down to stubs with every snore, every twist and turn through the night, every flailing arm to the face as the boy somehow manages to move twice as much in sleep as he does awake. Instead, he catches himself smiling fondly, mind whirling with thoughts of waking up next to this boy every day for the rest of his days.

As soon as he returns to Beacon, he’ll be hunting down his nephew and ripping out his throat for making him soft. The brooding fool’s romantic musings and sickening hero complex are clearly rubbing off on him more than he’ll ever care to admit.

Stiles whines pitifully in his sleep, startling Peter from thoughts of bloody murder. His body instinctively shuffles closer, not close enough to be touching but close enough for the human to take advantage of his heat.

“Shhh, sweetheart,” he whispers gently, fingers itching to reach out and soothe the boy as he twitches and spasms through an obvious nightmare. “You’re safe.”

As if the words were the key, the boy’s face instantly evens out, his expression smoothing back into tranquil rest, his heart rate gradually slowing down to calm.

Maybe being soft isn’t such a terrible thing, but you’ll never hear him say that out loud.

~

Stiles’ family arrive bright and early on Christmas eve morning, all of them ecstatic to see him after so many years.

They all greet Peter as if he’s always been part of the family, Stiles’ aunt Petra pulling him into an enthusiastic hug as soon as he introduces himself. Petra’s husband Josep shakes his hand warmly, his smile blinding; he doesn’t say much, the reason evident in his wife’s eccentric nature.

The guy doesn’t seem to get a word in edgeways, Petra guiding the conversation at every opportunity, but the man just shrugs, smiling down at his chatterbox of a wife as if she’s the greatest thing since the invention of the telephone. Peter catches himself glancing over at Stiles, the boy in an equally as animated discussion with his uncle Adrian and his husband Edward, and well, he’s acutely aware of the similarities.

Adrian and Edward have four children, Zotia at thirteen, Wojtek at eleven, and twins Karolina and Alek at eight. Petra and Josep have Daniel at one—one and a half if you want to get technical—and a one-month-old baby Claudia.

Peter doesn’t miss the way Stiles’ eyes glaze at the name, the aroma surrounding him clouding subtly with sadness before Petra plops the placid child in his arms. His face splits into a broad, sunshine smile, intuitively cuddling the bundle close, bouncing on the balls of his feet to settle her when she stirs.

The human’s automatic maternal instinct makes something in Peter’s gut spark, his wolf purring under his skin at the sight of the boy cooing softly at the babe in his arms. His scent mingling with the child’s doing nothing to help settle the flaring of Peter's own instincts, his wolf howling at the simple domesticity.

“He’s a natural.” Edward sidles up beside him, nudging him with his elbow to catch his attention. “You guys talked about kids?”

“Not yet,” Peter answers distractedly, a lump forming in his throat at the notion. “It’s still early days.”

“They’re not for everyone, but I reckon Mischief would take to fatherhood like a duck takes to water.”

Peter hums in agreement, unable to take his eyes off the boy. They stand in comfortable silence, watching from the sidelines as Stiles flits between each member of his family, baby still held protectively to his chest as he goes.

The other children have since become bored with the introductions, not entirely interested in adult conversation, instead choosing to play a game of hide and seek in another part of the house.

Except for Daniel. He seems more content with staring inquisitively at Peter, face scrunched up as if he’s deciding whether he wants to approach or keep his distance—or maybe it's just wind. He’s holding a stuffed wolf under his arm, the thumb of his other chubby hand lodged firmly in his mouth.

Peter looks at him from the corner of his eye, barely holding back a grimace as slobber drips from the child’s mouth onto the toy’s furry head. The boy is cute, he can’t deny that, but the dream of Stiles with a lap full of his pups is slowly becoming less appealing.

The brown-haired boy waddles towards him, stopping directly beside his leg. Peter holds his breath as the child dislodges his thumb from his mouth, a trail of saliva following his hand as his pudgy fingers curl around Peter’s brand new designer jeans, tugging sharply to get his attention.

A snort from across the room draws his attention, Stiles’ mouth a thin line as if he’s barely holding in his amusement, the boy obviously having watched the scene unfold, Peter’s disgusted expression clearly not as subtle as he thought.

Peter glares at him, eliciting a barking laugh, but he doesn’t get time to appreciate the sound as a small, demanding voice floats towards his ear. “Up.”

He’s one second away from shooing, from baring his teeth and scaring the little creature into leaving him be when Petra pipes up. “Aw, he likes you,” she croons. “It’s okay; you can pick him up, I don’t mind.”

Peter's jaw twitches, morphing his mouth into a smile he hopes doesn’t display his true feelings before reluctantly bending down to haul the small boy into his arms. He settles Daniel on his hip, leaning back, trying his best to keep some resemblance of a barrier between them—not overly keen on the prospect of drool landing on his favorite v-neck—but the boy is too young to understand the concept of personal space.

“Lookit,” he mumbles, thrusting the damp wolf into Peter’s face. “Wolf.”

“Hm, I see the wolf,” Peter hums dryly, going a little cross-eyed with how close the mangy toy is to him, the smell of wet fabric assaulting his nostrils, his gag reflex holding onto faith. “What’s his name?”

“ _She_ called Bella.” Daniel pulls the stuffed animal to his chest, cuddling it close, wide brown eyes staring at Peter, waiting for compliment. 

“She’s… _lovely_ ,” he manages with herculean effort, corner of his lips only ticking ever so slightly upwards at the gummy grin he receives in return.

“Don’t injure yourself there, babe,” Stiles teases. “Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you enjoyed lying to children.”

The small boy cowers closer to Peter, hiding his face in his shoulder as Stiles approaches, suddenly shy.

Peter grins, preening subconsciously at the tiny human’s exceptional judge of character. “He likes me more than you.”

“Yeah, I’m cool with that, drool doesn’t go well with plaid, but it does give your v-neck a bit of extra _oomph_.”

Peter follows Stiles’ eyes towards his shirt, and sure enough, a puddle is forming where the toddler's face is smushed into him. He does his best not to sigh, he really does, but with the way Stiles chuckles, it’s obvious he’s unsuccessful.

“I really am out of practice,” he admits, shoulders sagging. “I can’t remember it being this messy.”

“Just wait ‘til aunt Petra volunteers you to change his diaper.”

Peter’s eyes snap to Stiles’, his face draining of all color.

The little shit burst out laughing, clutching at his side. “You should see your face, oh my god.”

“I’m glad I amuse you, Stiles,” he growls low in his throat, stopping abruptly when the boy in his arm whimpers at the sound, hand smoothing over his back to placate him. “It’s alright, little one; your cousin is just being a brat.”

“You looked utterly terrified,” Stiles hiccups, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes. “Don’t worry; I was only playing.”

“You’re a menace.”

The boy winks with his whole face, the gesture utterly ridiculous. “You love it.”

Yes, yes, he does.

~

After all the introductions and heartfelt reunions, everything is suddenly a buzz of excitement and energy, the whole family doing as tradition dictates and pitching together to decorate Babcia’s house. The children are bounding around, laughing and squealing, placing decorations and lights on every available space until it resembles Santa’s grotto.

Something warm unfurls in Peter's chest at the atmosphere, no one without a smile on their face as they spread Christmas into every nook and cranny, no complaints or grumbles, just pure unadulterated jubilation.

He can’t remember the last time he felt this content.

A deep belly-laugh from behind him piques his attention; he turns, snorting as he notices the state of Stiles standing a few feet away from him. The clumsy fool is chuckling, holding out his arms in a silent plea for help, having accidentally trapped himself in an endless web of colorful tinsel and fairy lights.

Peter shakes his head, dropping the wreath in his hand in favor of strolling towards the boy. “I can’t take you anywhere,” he wistfully chides as he works on untangling Stiles from the mess of decorations.

“Not my fault,” the boy pouts adorably. “They’re just so frickin’ fiddly.”

Peter hums, sliding the last piece of silver tinsel from atop the boys’ head. “You ever think that maybe you’re just clumsy?”

Stiles beams at him, feigning sweet ignorance. “Never crossed my mind.”

Peter reaches out to smooth his unruly hair, a few strands sticking up from the static. His fingers linger as they slide down the side of the boy’s face, physically unable to retract them from the warmth radiating from his pinkened cheeks.

Stiles’ bright doe eyes assess him, breath caught in his throat as time itself seems to stand still. His slick tongue peeks out to wet his plump bottom lip, Peter eyeing the motion hungrily, heart pounding loudly in his chest.

“Mischief,” Babcia shrieks, both of them jumping apart in startled surprise, gaze falling to their feet guiltily. “Come, come; you put the star on the top.” The woman motions towards the tree, the monstrous thing twice as high as even the tallest person in the room, only a small gap between the peak and the ceiling.

They walk towards it, Stiles taking the glittery golden star from his grandmas’ hand, blinking exaggeratedly at the top of the tree. “How am I supposed to reach?”

Before Peter can think about what he’s doing, he steps up close to the boy's back, hands curling around his slim hips and lifting.

Stiles lets out a startled squawk, characteristically flailing as Peter hauls him up towards the top half of the layered pines. It takes Stiles a moment to snap out of his momentary collapse in brain function, stretching out those lithe arms to wrestle with the tree and shining ornament until it’s fixed securely.

Nimble fingers pat Peter's hand, the warmth in the touch bursting across his skin. “You can let me down now.”

Peter lowers him to the ground with little effort, not even bothering to step back as Stiles turns to face him, an unreadable expression on his face. “Thanks.”

“No problem, sweetheart.”

“Aw,” Petra coos, everyone else murmuring their agreement. “You two are so adorable, such a handsome couple.”

Stiles laughs, turning to his aunt, tips of his ears turning a delightful shade of red. Peter takes a moment to indulge in the boy’s close proximity, counting the moles dancing cross his cheeks as they move with the words falling from his mouth. Calculating the exact angle of his jaw and eyes tracing the soft, supple lips as he talks animatedly to his family.

Peter blocks out the words as he just observes, everything in the background becoming a blur of slow-motion as every single one of his senses drowns in _Stiles_.

The boy must sense eyes on him as his gaze flicks to the side momentarily, a soft smile splitting his face before he turns back to the crowd.

Peter is so hopelessly in love.

~

“So,” Petra starts, turning towards Peter. “What was the first thing that attracted you to Stiles?”

After exhausting themselves of decorating, they all decided to congregate in the living room, take the much-needed chance to relax before dinner. Everyone is either lounging across a sofa or armchair in Babcia’s living room, only Stiles having chosen to sit on the floor, situating himself between Peter’s legs as if it’s the most natural thing in all the world—as if he belongs there.

Peter can’t help but agree. 

“His eyes,” Peter answers the woman’s question, startling even himself with his quick response. Stiles peers up at him, eyebrows raised towards his hairline. “For all he talks enough for the entirety of the US, his eyes speak louder than any words that come out of his mouth. They hold more expression, more depth.” He shrugs casually, looking down at the boy, giving in to his impulses and threading his fingers gently through his hair, heart skipping a beat as Stiles leans into the gesture. “I could be deaf, and I’d know exactly what he was saying, what he was _feeling_ , just by looking into his eyes.”

“That’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” Edward gapes, hand over his heart as he gushes. “After thirteen years, this one wouldn’t even know the color of my eyes if he wasn’t staring straight at them.” The man slaps his husband on the shoulder, huffing dramatically when he just gets an embarrassed chuckle in return.

“Yeah, well, he’s all talk,” Stiles laughs harshly, scooting further around to face him without leaving the space between his legs, closing his eyes tight. “What color are they?”

“Dark brown,” Peter answers without hesitation. “But when you step out into the sun, they lighten, almost like pools of warm honey. The middle stays dark, but the edges glimmer like amber,” he continues, unable to stop himself, the boy’s lids gradually fluttering open, puzzlement evident on his brow. “But they look the best in the moonlight, the stars reflecting off your pupils, the soft glow making them shine like gold. They’re undoubtedly the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

Stiles blinks at him, silence stretching between them before he chuffs, unbelieving, tearing his gaze away while muttering under his breath, “smooth fucker.”

Peter smirks, not failing to notice how the corner of the boy’s mouth tilts upwards.

~

“They really bought it, you know,” Stiles announces as he steps out onto the patio, sliding inelegantly onto the bench beside him. “That speech you gave about my eyes, you deserve an Oscar.”

“Glad you think so.” Peter puffs out his chest in a show of pride. “Took me ages to practice.”

“I’ll bet,” the boy chuckles, nudging him with his shoulder. “What you doing out here anyway? It's freezing.”

Peter rolls his eyes as Stiles wraps his arms around himself, his shivering loud enough to batter his sensitive eardrums. “You humans are so fragile; come here; I can keep you warm.” He extends his arm, gesturing for the boy to move under his wing. When Stiles just stares at him strangely, he gives him a dry look. “If I were going to take advantage of you, Stiles, I’d have done it by now.”

The human flinches as if slapped, shaking his head with enough force that his rosy cheeks ripple. “That’s not- I would never think that about you, Peter. You’re many things, but not… _that._ ”

Peter sniffs dramatically. “That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Shut up,” Stiles snipes playfully, scootching closer, settling against his side.

Peter pulls him snug towards his chest, rubbing his hand up and down his arm in an attempt to warm him up.

They sit there for a moment in comfortable silence, their breaths puffing out as white clouds around them, the flurrying snow clinging to their hair and eyelashes.

It’s peaceful.

_Beautiful._

“It’s been years since I celebrated Christmas,” Peter finally breaks the quiet, eyes focused on the far side of the garden. “Since waking from the coma, big family get-togethers hasn’t really been an option.”

“I-I’m sorry, I never thought-”

“It’s alright,” Peter assures him before he can work himself into a panic, squeezing the boy’s arm to ground him. “Just being here, surrounded by a family again, it brings it all back. Hale’s never skimped on Christmas; it’s some of my fondest memories.”

He feels Stiles nod against him, nuzzling closer. “You wanna talk about them?”

He mulls the question around in his head, but he decides against it. Talking would only bring him more pain; that time in his life has passed, although he’ll never forget, there’s no point dwelling.

He shakes his head but realizes Stiles won’t see the gesture from his position. “No, but thank you.”

“What for?”

“Giving me the chance to feel this all again,” he waves his hand towards the house, chuckling under his breath. “Even if it is fake.”

“Peter, my babcia has adopted you,” the boy says honestly. “You’re stuck with us now.”

Stiles cuddles impossibly closer, arms circling around his waist. Peter knows it’s probably just to chase the heat, the air biting around them, but he still cherishes the feeling of having him this close.

Even if it’s only for a little while.

~

Dinner is perfection, not that Peter expected any less from Em. He tried things he's never tried before, which, considering how cultured he is, is quite a feat.

Stiles flops gracelessly onto the couch next to him, patting his bulging belly in a move he can’t help find endearing.

“Man, I am _stuffed_ ,” the boy groans, melting further into the cushions.

Peter snorts, turning fully to face him, cocking his eyebrow in judgment. “I can see that.”

“Not my fault everything tasted so damn good.”

“You’ll be too full for dinner tomorrow.”

“Nah,” Stiles giggles, eyes drifting closed as he gets comfortable. “Wouldn’t miss a turkey dinner for the world.”

“Presents!” One of Stiles’ younger cousins screeches, rushing toward the tree to sit under it, startling Stiles out of his brief rest.

Stiles grimaces awkwardly, shuffling until he’s sitting upright. "Oh, we didn't bring any gifts."

“We didn’t expect anything, Mischief,” his babcia assures him, tapping his shoulder gently as she passes, taking up the space in between him and Peter on the couch. “I told you before you came, having you here is gift enough.”

A chorus of hums and nodding heads travel through the group of smiling faces. “Oh, jeez guys, you’ll make me cry.” Stiles wipes his face of an imaginary tear, everyone chuckling at his theatrics. “We did manage to get you something, though, Babcia, as a thank you for having us. It was Peter's idea.”

“Ah, you shouldn’t have,” she scolds, but Peter can see how her eyes light up with excitement.

Peter stands, realization dawning on him that Stiles isn’t moving a muscle anytime soon, walking over to the tree and bending down to collect the medium-sized box towards the back.

Babcia claps her hands in delight, getting comfortable on the sofa as Peter sets the present in her lap.

“It’s not much,” Peter comments, but she dismisses him with a noise, tearing open the paper with enough enthusiasm to rival any of the children.

Wrappings fly through the air, tumbling in a heap across the carpet at her feet. “Oh, my goodness,” she squeaks, hands clasping over her gaping mouth. She studies the pictures on the box intently, reading and re-reading the product name as if it’ll change before her eyes. “Thank you so much.”

She twists around to give Stiles a sloppy peck on the cheek, her scent swarming around the room, happiness and warmth, the expression on her face pure appreciation.

“You were saying the other day how you needed a new set,” Stiles tells her, motioning to the high quality—Peter would purchase no less—stainless steel, non-stick pots and pans she’s now rifling through.

Peter has never seen anyone rip open a box in as little time, the duct tape no match for her curiosity, tearing it apart as if she were the one with claws.

“I do, thank you, I’ll use them tomorrow when I help Peter in the kitchen.”

“You will not,” Peter says with finality, settling back in his seat beside her. “You’ll be resting; let me take care of it; it’s the least I can do.”

Babcia murmurs affectionally, stopping in her inspection of the new kitchenware to stare up at him, eyelashes fluttering. “Such a dear boy.”

A few snickers come through the group as she slants over to cup his cheek. He bites his tongue to stop the laughter leaving his lips; the flat expression Stiles is aiming at the side of his grandma’s head is utterly comical.

~

Peter is reclining in one of the patchwork armchairs, staring leisurely out the window onto the snow-covered grass.

He’s not really focusing on much, just enjoying the droplets of white dancing from the sky, the whistling wind sending a faux shiver down his back, taunting him as he sits safe and warm in the confines of the conservatory.

He’s nursing a mug of hot chocolate between his palms, cream and melted marshmallow clinging to his lips, tongue soaked in the pleasant sweetness of cocoa.

He’s at ease.

A familiar heartbeat advances behind him, footsteps tentative as Stiles’ image gradually appears in the reflection of the window in front of him.

“So, I lied earlier,” the boy admits as he leans against the open door, twiddling his thumbs with the oversized sleeves of his new, hideously charming, knitted sweater. 

“About what?”

“I did get you a gift,” he mumbles, hand rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “I just didn’t want to make a big deal out of it in front of everyone, so... _here_.” Stiles produces a rectangle present from behind his back, where Peter presumes it was tucked into his jeans.

Peter looks down at the crumpled mess of green and red wrapping paper, a brown string knotted around the whole thing in an attempt to neaten it up.

“It’s nothing special,” the human says sheepishly when Peter continues to just stare at the gift without opening it.

“Stiles,” he breathes out, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest. “You didn’t need to get me anything.”

The boy shrugs, smiling. “I know, but it’s a thank you for coming here with me and doing this; I really appreciate it.” He bounces on the balls of his feet a few times, scent turning anxious. “Go on, open it; the suspense is killing me.”

Peter places his mug on the coffee table. Holding the present in one hand, he uses the other to pluck at the string bow, unsurprised when it doesn’t budge; the knot twisted up tight. He extends one of his claws, slicing through the cord with little effort.

He peels away the sickeningly bright paper, fingers stuttering as the brown leather cover of a book comes into view, breath hitching when he reads the title. “Stiles, is this-?”

“Yeah.”

Peter turns it over in his hands, fingers greedy as he smooths the tips over every inch, finally flicking to the first page to glance at the contents.

“Oh, sweet boy,” he gasps, face splitting into a grin. “Where on earth did you find it?”

Stiles counters his expression with a smile of his own, the sour scent of nervousness disappearing from the air at Peter's positive reaction. “Deaton gave me the contact details of a guy who collects ancient tomes; I remember you saying you wanted to add it to your own collection but couldn’t find a copy, so I thought I’d try looking for it myself. Turns out he had it just lying around in his archives, completely unread.”

“This must have cost you a fortune,” Peter realizes after a moment, closing the cover. “I can’t accept it.”

Stiles raises his hands, avoiding Peter's attempts to give it back to him. “Nope, no fortune, the guy just asked for some rune related help in return, said the book would probably just waste away in his stores, so he’d rather it belong to someone who’ll get some joy out of it, who’ll take good care of it. I assured him you would.”

At Stiles’ explanation, Peter places the novel back on his lap, fingers clutching onto the edges as if it’ll fly away.

“Thank you,” he offers sincerely, unable to look into the boy’s eyes as his own glisten. “This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Don’t mention it,” Stiles whispers, taking a timid step forward, hand coming down to rest atop Peter's wrist as he leans down to peck a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek. “Merry Christmas, Peter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The delicious smell of turkey and honey glazed ham infiltrates the kitchen, but nothing surpasses the happy and contented scent wafting from Stiles.
> 
> This time, Peter's smile does reach his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're sticking with Peter 'cause he's my fav. There's probs more dialogue in this chapter than the last three, it's also shorter 'cause it's just the final push to the finish line. 
> 
> I had originally planned on posting this whole thing as one chapter, but quickly decided against it, that's why each part is of weird varying lengths, it's just where I thought best to portion it up.
> 
> Did I mention Peter was soft? 
> 
> I hope you like it!

Peter wakes first, the sound of Stiles’ grandmother pottering around in the kitchen downstairs bringing him up lazily from tranquil slumber.

Stiles is still snoring quietly beside him, adorable little huffs of breath escaping his lax lips as he dreams. Like this, he looks so at peace, no dramatic animation, no worry or anxiety marring his scent or expression, just his beautiful features slack in blissful sleep.

He almost looks innocent.

Peter chuckles under his breath at that notion, an unyielding fondness splitting his face as he takes a moment to revel in the boy’s delicate beauty. The subtle tilt of his nose, the smooth curve in his jaw, his sharp cheekbones softened by the sweet constellation of light brown marks dotted across his milky skin.

He’d give everything to just reach out and touch, to trail his fingers over every inch of him, explore his body until he knows it as well as he knows his own.

But he can’t.

After several more minutes, he gets out of bed, being careful with his footsteps, light on his feet as he gets dressed. He bends down to rummage in his suitcase, rifling under the pile of still clean clothes, searching until his hand connects with what he wants.

He pulls out the small flat black box, standing as he opens the lid, fingertips sliding over the contents. A titanium pendant strung together with a black leather rope. He traces the intricate engraving carved into the metal, three spokes spiraling out from a center point.

The triskelion.

Ever since he came back from the wild hunt, he’s considered the boy a part of his pack, his _family_ ; it’s a bold gesture he knows, but the boy’s intelligence is unmatched—even by his standards. He’ll know the significance; even if he’s never aware of the full extent of his affections, he’ll know what the gesture means.

Accepting the gift, displaying it on his neck for all to see, will be Stiles’ declaration of willingness to call Peter his packmate, in whatever capacity.

He walks over to Stiles’ side of the bed, grateful for the boy’s ability to sleep through a storm. He puts the box gently on the side table, taking one last glance at the sleeping form cozy and serene among the chaotic nest of blankets.

He leans down, silent as he can be, placing a tender kiss on the boy’s forehead. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

~

“He really loves you, you know.”

Peter doesn’t startle, but with how deep he was in his own thoughts, he’s surprised when Em breaks the comfortable silence. “How can you tell?” he asks after a moment, keeping his eyes on the dough he’s kneading between his fingers.

Babcia chuckles, coming up to stand beside him. “How can you not? Boy, my eyesight is failing me, and I can see clear as day how deeply he feels for you.”

Peter smiles, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes, attention still focused on his hands. He doesn’t say anything, not willing to risk exposing the fakeness of their relationship. Not entirely sure if it’s for Babcia’s sake; knowing the information would most likely break her heart, or his own. 

The woman reaches out in his silence, her small hand resting atop his to stop his movements. Peter looks down at her, her eyes alight with warmth and fondness. “The way he looks at you, it’s as if you just hung the moon.” She says it with such conviction, such sincerity that Peter almost believes it, wants nothing more than to nod and agree that _yes, he loves me, he loves me just as much as I love him, and I’ll never let him go because he’s everything to me._

_He’s my whole world._

But Stiles doesn’t feel the same way and-

“I just-” Peter starts, but the words catch in his throat; he sighs in defeat.

“What is it, honey?” the woman prompts, voice a gentle caress. “Tell old babcia.”

Peter doesn’t look at her as he answers, but his face conveys his despair. “He’s so young.”

“Ah,” Babcia smiles kindly, knowingly, fingers squeezing tighter on his arm. “You know, my husband, God rest his soul, was fifteen years my senior,” she begins chattering, staring off into the distance, lost in the memories. “My father, he wasn’t best pleased, let me tell you. Made it very difficult for us, which was quite odd considering how normal those occurrences were in my day, but he just wouldn’t allow it. Years we spent sneaking around in the shadows, keeping our love a secret. Do you know what changed his mind?”

Peter shakes his head, listening intently.

“Jakub could see how unhappy it made me, the living apart, the secrets, the wedge it drove between my father and I. So, he marched right up to my house, knocked on the door and told my father he was leaving, that he no longer has to worry about losing his daughter to him ‘cause the next day he’d be gone. When my father asked why, he said that I deserved to be loved for the whole world to see, that the lies and deceit was making me miserable, and it was killing him to see the smile on my face depleted. That he’ll gladly stand aside and let someone else love me, someone _worthy_ , if it means I’ll be happy again.”

Peter's brow creases in confusion. “He was willing to give you up, to set aside his love because he thought you’d be happier with someone your father approved of?”

When he says it out loud, the similarities of the situation are a little too close for comfort.

“Silly, isn’t it? He always was a fool,” Em scoffs but her smile is enamored, eyes filled with yearning. “Right there on that doorstep, my father gave us his blessing. He could see in that buffoon of a man’s eyes how hopelessly in love he was, how much he adored me, age difference or no.” She shrugs, turning back to give her full attention to him once again. “I know it’s not really the same; it’s your own reservations swarming your head, not Mischief’s fathers.” _Hm, fifty-fifty._ “But all I’m saying is, don’t let something as insignificant as this get in the way of what you have, of the bond you share, because Peter, it truly is a beautiful thing.”

Peter feels an unwelcome stinging at the corner of his eyes, his throat closing up as he pushes against all the emotion bubbling up inside him. He opens his mouth to say something, to protest; the confession of their lie on the tip of his tongue as the woman stares up at him with a hopeful gaze.

The trudging sound of familiar footsteps is what snaps him out of it.

Swallowing thickly, he plasters on his best smile, shaking his head to clear the looming void just as the boy reaches the bottom of the stairs. “I can do all of this; if you want to rest, it’s still early.”

“Nonsense,” Em taps his arm, tutting, seemingly unbothered by the abrupt change in subject or just too sympathetic to mention it. “I feel useless if I’m not doing something; I can’t have you doing this all by yourself; Lord knows Mischief is useless in the kitchen.”

Stiles' flailing arms gesture exaggeratedly in Peter's peripheral vision, the boy stopping in his tracks as if he just hit a forcefield. “I’ve barely opened my eyes, and I’m already being roasted,” he squawks indignantly, glaring at his grandma as she giggles. “Good morning to you too, Babcia.”

Stiles bends down to place a kiss on the woman’s cheek, hissing as she slaps his hand away from tasting the bubbling cherry pie filling she’s gone back to stirring at the stove.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say he’s _completely_ useless,” Peter mutters, a mischievous grin on his face. “He’s a decent vegetable peeler.”

“Nope, uh-huh, not happening,” Stiles protests animatedly. “It’s Christmas; give me a day off from manual labor.”

“Lazy boy,” Babcia stands on her tiptoes, smacking Stiles upside the head. Peter can’t hold back his snort at the boy’s stunned expression. “Get your ass over there and peel some vegetables.” She turns to Peter then, face all sweet and innocent. “Is the pastry ready, dear? I’ll assemble the pies so you can move onto something else.”

Peter nods gratefully, stepping aside to let the woman collect the pastry he’d been kneading. He chuffs in amusement when she winks at him, head tilting towards Stiles, who’s quietly muttering to himself as he begins to aggressively peel the mountain of vegetables.

Peter walks over to him, placing his hands on the boy’s hips, pretending to assess his work over his shoulder. It takes every ounce of control in him to hold back the flashing of his eyes at the sight of the boy’s tongue sticking out between his teeth in concentration.

Stiles doesn’t even flinch at the casual touch, nor is he aware of Peter’s inner turmoil, just mumbles under his breath in a pitch only a wolf could hear. “I swear to God, she loves you more than me.”

“That’s not hard to do, dear boy; I’m helpful.”

“I can be helpful.” Stiles twists his neck to look at Peter, lifting his hands as if to indicate his meaning with the carrot and peeler.

Peter snickers, stepping to the side, taking the butchered vegetable from Stiles’ hand along with the peeler, proceeding to demonstrate in slow, calculated movements the correct way to use the instrument. Stiles pouts, looking at him as if he’s just showed him a complex science experiment, but he squares his shoulders, taking back the items from Peter’s hands, his expression determined.

It’s in that moment that Peter's eyes catch the glistening shine from the boys’ throat, his neck tilted enticingly as he focuses back on his task. Peter's heart leaps in his throat, his lips obviously expelling a gasp as Stiles’ attention instantly comes back to him, eyes following where Peter's gaze has fallen.

His nimble fingers lift to fondle with the jewelry tied around his neck, the corner of his mouth curling upward. “Thank you.”

Peter nods. “Don’t mention it.”

Stiles goes back to the veg while Peter turns to another part of the counter to prep everything else.

The delicious smell of turkey and honey glazed ham infiltrates the kitchen, but nothing surpasses the happy and contented scent wafting from Stiles.

This time, Peter's smile does reach his eyes.

~

Dinner is a roaring success, not that he’s surprised—he’s not exactly unaware of his culinary genius. There were a few playful comments regarding Stiles’ less than satisfactory vegetable peeling skills, but the boy was too full to care.

It’s possible he outdid himself even more than yesterday, gorging to the point of tummy-ache, but Peter can’t help preening. The instinctual part of him ecstatic with successfully providing for the boy.

After the whole family pitch together to clear up, the games ensue. Stiles, for all his animated flailing, is absolutely atrocious at charades. He’s also a very sore loser when it comes to Monopoly; Peter cannot—even with all his willpower—put a handle on his amusement as the petulant little fucker swipes his uncle’s hotels from the board instead of paying the rent owed.

By the evening, once all the children are tucked away in bed, the adults relax on the sofas to watch TV and wind down. Babcia ladle’s out several cups of her incredibly potent homemade mulled wine, handing everyone a glass so they can toast to the holidays. It’s a little spicy for Peter’s taste, but it’s warm and filling as it settles in his gut. Being a werewolf, he can’t get drunk on regular human alcohol, but he can still enjoy the flavor as it seeps into his tongue.

Stiles is a little buzzed after only his second cup, the boy’s tolerance leaving a lot to be desired, but it just proves to help him relax further into his surroundings, sharing embarrassing stories from his childhood, laughing unabashedly at his own jokes. 

It’s safe to say that Peter has fallen even more hopelessly in love, if that were even possible, but for once, instead of dwelling on the impossibility of it, he just lets himself bask in the knowledge that Stiles—even if the feelings aren’t mutual—trusts him enough, sees him as enough of a friend after all that’s transpired between them to include him in this.

He relishes in the boy’s carefree attitude, for the first time in a long time entirely unburdened by the usual stress that comes from dealing with all the supernatural mishaps.

He’s not reluctant to admit, even just to himself, that this has been one of the best Christmas’s he’s ever had, and it’s all down to this one utterly ridiculous but stunningly wonderful human.

“Right,” Stiles exclaims, drawing everyone’s attention. He wobbles ever so slightly on his feet, but Peter reckons it's more to do with his ingrained clumsiness than intoxication. “I’m going to get another drink.”

“I’ll get it for you.” Peter stands, placing his own drink to the side before heading towards the kitchen.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Stiles laughs, trailing after him, stopping Peter just as he reaches the door. “I’m not completely incompetent,” he giggles adorably, nudging Peter’s shoulder playfully. “ _Yet_.”

“Hate to alarm you guys,” Josep interrupts, a knowing smile across his face. “But look at where you’re standing.”

At the same time, both he and Stiles follow Josep’s finger, glancing above themselves to the top of the doorway they’ve subconsciously migrated under.

_Mistletoe._

Peter would’ve laughed at the absurdity of it, but it’s just one more way the Gods deign to punish him for his past indiscretions, it would seem. Kissing the man he secretly loves under the mistletoe in front of his family, who are none the wiser to the utter farce that is their whole relationship _,_ seems excessively cruel, but Peter can’t help admire the poetry of it.

Adrian claps his hands gleefully, resembling a child in a sweet shop. “Go on then, kiss.”

Stiles gulps audibly, bursting into nervous chuckles. “You don’t really believe in all that, do you?”

“Of course,” Em scoffs, gesturing her hand for them to get on with it.

Stiles gives Peter an apologetic look before quickly pecking him on the cheek, much like he had the other night but with a little more urgency.

“Oh, come on, Mischief,” Babcia grumbles, throwing her hands in the air, a move very similar to one of her grandsons. “Kiss him like you mean it.”

Right then, staring into those fiery depths tinged with a clear mirror of uncertainty, Peter comes to a startling conclusion. He's hypnotized by the split-second unveiling of the future those golden rays promise; the endless possibilities so intimately within his grasp.

Before he even has the chance to ponder the implication, he tumbles head first over the cliff, diving into the unpredictable waters below, allowing himself no time to prepare a breath.

Fuck his reservations. Fuck that negative voice in his head.

_Fuck everything._

For the first time in so many years, Peter doesn’t stop to weigh the pros and cons; he just reaches out his hands to frame both of Stiles’ cheeks, the warmth seeping into his palms, and crashes their lips together. He swallows Stiles’ little squeak of surprise, then all of the pretty mewls thereafter. He kisses him as if he’s starving, as if the meal they just had wasn’t enough to suppress his appetite.

He wants more.

His tongue plunders the boy's mouth, hot and seeking, chasing greedily the still lingering traces of apple pie and vanilla ice cream, but above all that, the sweet and sickly taste of pure _Stiles_.

It only takes several seconds before the boy is wrapping his arms around his neck, giving back as good as he gets, pushing into him with all the passion his body possesses. His tongue licks into Peter’s mouth with practiced ease, drawing a rumbling subvocal growl from deep in his chest.

It could be minutes; it could be hours, Peter doesn’t know, too much a slave to his addiction to care about the time. The boy’s soft lips are drowning him in sensation, making his head spin, the scent wafting from him enveloping Peter in a tight cloying embrace, the concentrated aroma utterly intoxicating.

At that moment, the realization finally dawns on him, his mind clawing back to the present from his impulsive lapse in judgment as he remembers where he is, who he’s with, what he’s doing.

Peter breaks his lips away, only allowing himself a second to preen at the boy’s wrecked state, panting breathlessly, sinfully plush mouth now red and swollen.

He stares into Stiles’ glazed eyes, the boy blinking owlishly up at him, and Peter just can’t handle the look of confusion. The gears cogging in his clever head, so he takes a step back, one hand falling from the human's face, the other lingering as if stuck like glue.

“Now _that_ is what I call a kiss,” Edward breaks the silence, gasping as if awed. 

Peter smiles distractedly, trailing his finger down the boy’s blushing cheek, heart swelling as Stiles chases the gesture.

He finally manages to remove his hand, fingers tingling with the desire to keep touching, but he ignores it. “Merry Christmas, Mieczyslaw.”

Peter slips into the other room once the family has gone back to chatting amongst themselves, using the guise of getting another drink in the kitchen.

He places both hands on the countertop, heaving a bone-deep sigh, shoulders hunching forward as he internally curses himself.

Five days he’s managed to keep his feelings under wraps, keep the desire and longing hidden away. All that effort, all the willpower it took, has just fallen apart around him with that one simple kiss.

He’s such a fool.

“What the hell was that?” Stiles hisses as he barges through the door, leaving it ajar, giving them some resemblance of privacy.

Peter closes his eyes for a moment, praying for the umpteenth time this week for strength before wandering towards the punch bowl filled with mulled wine, distracting himself with pouring the liquid into an unnecessary amount of cups. “Speak plainly, dear boy.”

Stiles doesn’t move much further into the room, choosing to stay close to the door; Peter can feel his eyes boring into the back of his head. “You kissed me.”

“You know,” Peter exhales a breath, not bothering to turn around as he addresses the human with his usual bite of sass. “That’s one thing I love about you, Stiles, your intelligence.”

“Peter, a kiss like that can’t be faked.”

Peter shrugs. “Perhaps I’m just an astounding actor.”

“The necklace, it wasn’t just about being your packmate, was it?” Peter swallows thickly, freezing in his movements, placing the ladle gently back into the bowl, answer sticking in his throat. Stiles continues in his silence, “wait, _love_?”

“Hm?”

Stiles takes a few steps closer, the sound echoing between Peter's ears. “One thing you love about me, you said _love_.”

“Did I?” he aims for airy and nonchalant but misses his mark by a country mile.

“You know you did.”

The tension leaves Peter's body on a sigh; he closes his eyes for a second, praying to every deity he knows the name of to give him one last bout of courage before turning around. 

“I do,” he whispers, eyes dropping to the floor as soon as the words rasp past his lips, somehow unable to look into the boy’s eyes as he processes the implication of his admission.

The momentary silence is deafening.

“Peter Hale, are you telling me that we’ve been faking a relationship when really we could’ve been together this whole damn time?”

Peter's eyes snap up, assessing the boy’s face for sincerity, hope rising from the pit of his stomach. “You- I didn’t think you’d feel the same?”

Stiles laughs, shaking his head as if he can’t quite believe the situation. “Peter, I’ve been in love with you since the wild hunt, you big fucking idiot wolf.”

“Well,” Peter's mouth suddenly feels as dry as the desert, but he clears his throat, squaring his shoulders. “That’s just rude.”

Quicker than he can comprehend, Stiles leaps into his arms, lips crashing against his, legs wrapping around his waist as he holds on for dear life.

This kiss is desperate, wet, and messy, a consummation of love and adoration. Stiles is gasping breathlessly into Peter’s mouth, but neither of them are willing to pull away for air, content to just share whatever’s left in their lungs as they battle to consume one another, body and soul.

Peter carries Stiles over to the counter, setting him down reverently so his hands can finally roam, fingers skating up his denim-covered thighs, under the woolen fabric of his sweater to grip his bare hips. Stiles shivers at the touch, mewling deliciously as Peter’s thumbs smooth over the protruding bones, pressing down to leave even the slightest hint of a mark.

The boy is clutching at his shoulders, legs still circling Peter's hips, using them as leverage to pull him impossibly closer, unsatisfied until they're fused together, chest to chest, groin to groin.

For a few more moments, they stay there, basking in the touch, taste, and sound of each other. Peter is hit with a cloud of rich, musky arousal, his eyes flaring blue, fangs itching to extend as a deep, animalistic growl vibrates through his entire body.

“Fuck,” Stiles gasps, breaking his lips away, dropping his head on Peter's shoulder as he attempts with evident strain to calm himself down. “As much as I’d love to keep going, I don’t think Babcia would appreciate us fucking in her kitchen... or she might, but only 'cause she'll get to see your bare ass.”

Peter snorts, his shift abating but his desire to debauch the boy right here on the counter still burning hot through his veins. He steadies his breathing, slowing his heart rate to a comfortable _thump_ before managing to peel himself away, not stepping out of the boys hold entirely, but putting a more respectable amount of space between them.

He removes his hands from under the boy’s sweater, placing them instead just above his knees, squeezing lightly. Stiles beams at him sweetly, arms unclasping from his shoulder, palms settling on his chest.

After a few moments of peacefully comfortable silence, the human’s grin turns cheeky, rolling his reddened lip between his teeth. “So, what else do you love about me?”

“Dear boy,” Peter chuckles. “I believe you are fishing.”

“Damn right, I’m fishing.”

Peter shakes his head in exasperation, but it’s all for show. He takes a second to look upon the human, face smoothing over as bright amber eyes stare at him patiently, that small curl on his lip quivering the longer Peter stays silent.

“I love how loyal you are, how willing you are to lay down your life for those you care about,” he begins, words falling from his lips without much thought.

He doesn’t have to reach too far into his head to find all the things he adores about the boy in front of him, having thought of nothing much else in the last seven years.

“I love how animated you are when you talk, you can’t stay still for a single second, and it’s so distractingly adorable,” he breathes out a laugh, mind supplying a few examples, reeling off the memories like scenes of a silent film. “I love how you laugh with your whole soul; your eyes sparkling with tears when something is so amusing that you can’t control your emotions; your blinding smile lighting up even the darkest corners of the earth.” He lifts his hand, knuckles trailing softly over the boy’s cheek. “I love the blush that creeps across your face when you’re angry, how your cute little nose twitches and nostrils flare when you’re just about holding onto your fiery rage.”

Stiles stays silent, allowing Peter to talk undisturbed, eyes never straying from his.

“I love your smell. Gods, Stiles, your smell threatens to drive me straight back into the realm of insanity; it reminds me so much of _home_ that I can’t even begin to describe to you how that makes me feel.”

The boy opens his mouth to speak, but Peter shushes him, placing his finger over his lips gently, tracing his sharply defined cupid's bow.

“I also love how you can’t make cookies to save your fucking life,” he grins widely, the boy chuckling, a few sudden exhales of breath at the reminder. “You’re such a hopeless cook, but it just shows that amongst all your sweet and gorgeous perfections, you’re still so wonderfully imperfect, and it may sound selfish, but it gives me hope that someone as broken as me may even be slightly worthy of you.”

Peter drops his hand back to the boy’s thigh, breath quaking, eyes glassy as he pours his heart and soul into every word. “You’re everything I could ever want, Stiles, you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, and I’d be honored to call you mine.”

Tears cascade down Stiles' cheeks, but his scent isn’t upset; it’s overwhelmingly euphoric and utterly satisfied. “Jesus, Peter, that’s-” he cuts himself off, his mouth opening and closing a few times, but no more words escaping.

He looks as if he’s struggling to function.

“I have to say,” Peter smirks, tone playful. “It is my biggest achievement, to date, having rendered you speechless.”

“Shut up, don’t ruin it,” Stiles scolds, tapping Peter’s chest, but there’s no heat behind it. One of his hands moves to cup the side of Peter’s face, thumb tilting his chin to lift his gaze, eyes fixed firmly on his, expression one of genuine devotion. “I am yours for as long as you’ll have me.”

Peter rests their foreheads together, nuzzling close, a gesture that somehow feels more intimate than anything they’ve yet shared. “How does forever sound?”

“Forever sounds perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, and we're done!
> 
> I will go back over this after Christmas and do another edit as I'm sure I've missed something, but for now, it is what it is.
> 
> Thank you for stopping by!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking of turning this into a short series as I have an idea for a sequel or two, but it will probably take a while as I'm in need of a break. I really wanna explore papa Stilinski's reaction to the whole thing, especially since it was one of Peter's main reservations for not admitting his feelings. Idiot wolf. Then again, Stiles is as much to blame for the seven years they wasted; they're both as hopeless as each other.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always much appreciated.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [asarcasticwitch](http://asarcasticwitch.tumblr.com).
> 
> I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas! ❤


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